The Maker's Gifts
by Tacens
Summary: Sometimes you must fight for your happy ending. Amell/Alistair. Spoilers.
1. Prelude

**Prelude  
**

The bards would surely sing of it one day. They would tell the tale of that dark night upon Fort Draken, when the armies of Ferelden gathered to cut down the Blight. They would sing of the ranks of men, mages, dwarves and elfs. They would sing of the noble party that fought to the top of the tower to challenge the evil that waited there. They would sing of courage. They would sing of glory.

Some would sing of the Elf, foreign and feline. Some would sing of the Dwarf, gone Berserk in bloodlust. Some would sing of the King, noble and brave. All would sing of the Grey Warden. They would sing of the mage, who with her last ounce of strength, took up the Kings' sword and struck down the Archdemon. They would sing of the thunder and lighting that followed. They would sing of the quake and the tempest that shook Denerim to its core.

They would sing of the Grey Warden, dead upon the tower_._


	2. Chapter 1: The Calm

**Chapter 1: The Calm**

"Solona…Solona, wake up."

With grey eyes still closed, Solona Amell smiled to herself. She was held tightly to Alistair's bare chest, his arms wrapped securely around her. She did not wish to awaken quite yet.

"Solona."

She had been exhausted for so long now. They have crisscrossed Ferelden thrice over in their quest to rally support against the Blight. They have battled demons, parlayed with spirits, vanquished a Paragon, and much, much more. This brief moment of peace was well earned. With a soft sigh, Solona burrowed in closer against her lover's neck. Gentle fingers brushed over her dark hair, and were caught briefly in her braids. She sighed once more; Alistair did try so very hard. The edge of the Veil flickered lightly across her; she could step back into the Fade so very easily…

"Solona!"

She frowned. Surely Alistair knew that she was tired. Why wouldn't he just give her this moment? It was soothing here. So warm… hot even. Sweltering, more so. There was suddenly no comfort to be found. Disquieting sounds began to seep into Solona's ears. The dull thud of marching footsteps. The rattle of chains. The shrill echo of a scream.

Solona shook herself awake. This was not their quiet camp outside Denerim. She tried to jump to her feet but was stilled by Alistair's careful embrace. Together they sat in only their small cloths upon a blackened stone floor. With panicked eyes, Solona scanned the surroundings. Orange light from dying torches flickered across a filthy cell. They were obviously in some sort of prison. Through the bars she could see a torture chamber on the landing below. Solona fought a sudden wave of nausea; there was corpses piled high in every corner.

"What? Where are we?" she gasped.

"Welcome to Fort Draken, love" replied Alistair with a grim smile. He furrowed his brows "You were asleep for so long, I thought … well, I was worried. You're alright?"

Solona was suddenly sore from head to toe; her whole body ached and whined in protest when she attempted to move. Most of all, her head sang in agony. It felt as though the very archdemon himself was trying to break loose from within.

"Bleh" she muttered, "I could use some lirium."

"Ah, as good as ever then," jested Alistair, as he placed a light kiss upon her forehead.

A memory in the back of Solona's mind finally broke through: the circumstances of their arrival at Fort Draken. Queen Anora had betrayed them. After flying to her rescue, she had turned upon the Wardens and handed them over to Ser Cauthrien.

"I'm going to throttle Anora," Solona said.

"No, no!" replied Alistair, "We should roast her on a spit and feed her to your hound with a slice of lemon. No? You think she would be better with some sort of honey and ale sauce?"

Solona would only raise a questioning brow to him.

"No? Fine, you can just do your magey crispy-fry spell thing if you want…" Alistair relented.

The sound of nearing footsteps sobered the pair. "We need to get out of here," Solona whispered. She dropped to a heap on the floor and began moaning and writhing about, just as the patrolling guard rounded the corner.

"Uhh… we need help in here. Help! Sick prisoner, over here!" called Alistair.

From her mound on the floor, Solona rolled her eyes. Love him though she may, Alistair was an awful actor.

The guard dredged over to their cell. "What's all this, then?" he growled.

"She's dying!" exclaimed Alistair, "And defenseless! And really really vulnerable!"

The guard peered with lecherous eyes through the bars. The prisoner on the floor was a beauty. They didn't get many lovelies in the Draken… perhaps he could just… The guard hit the ground the moment he turned the key in the lock. The impact seemed to have left him unharmed; the guard snored softly to himself in a deep, dreamless sleep.

Alistair stared at the sleeping guard. "Bad call not having a templar on duty here," he mused.

Solona could only shrug in response.

They found their armor and other supplies conveniently stored in a chest nearby. With rushed fingers Alistair secured his armor, while Solona tried not to look at the torture devices below.

"Do you think they would have…to us?" she asked in a low voice. Solona did not fare well in stone towers at the best of times. Alistair avoided her question.

"Are you ready?" he finally asked. Solona nodded in reply.

Taking in a deep breath and pushing Solona gently behind him, Alistair drew his sword and readied his shield. Prepared for anything, he delivered a sharp kick to the waiting doors, and… discovered Morrigan and Leliana disguised in Chantry robes on the other side.

Leliana immediately sprang forth and grasped Solona in a crushing hug. "_Ma Petite! _We were so worried. Are you alright? Look at your hair!" she exclaimed.

Alistair stared at Morrigan, dressed primly in Chantry robes. He opened his mouth to speak, but was immediately silenced by Morrigan's deathly warning, "Do not ask, Templar, lest I scorch your tongue from that dribbling hole of a mouth."

It was practically a warm embrace.

* * *

The Grey Wardens and their companions had escaped Fort Draken with relative ease. But now in Arl Eamon's study, all hell had broken lose.

The Wardens and their companions had returned to find Anora sitting comfortably in the Arl's study, enjoying a steaming cup of tea. In an instant, Solona began casting a hex.

"Apprentice Amell!" shouted Wynne, and Solona dropped the spell. Old habits were hard to break.

Alistair was less forgiving as he drew his sword. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't cut you down here and now," he breathed.

Anora sighed. "It was necessary," she began, sounding more like she was addressing her court than the livid fellows before her. "If I had told Cauthrien the truth, she would have insisted that I return to the palace. Maker only knows what my father would have done."

"You're her queen!" exclaimed Solona. "You could have ordered her to do anything you bloody well wanted."

Alistair placed a soft hand upon Solona's shoulder, and drew her behind him as he stepped forward.

"They could have killed her," he seethed, taking slow steps toward the Queen. "They were going to torture her."

"It was necessary!" Anora shouted in turn.

"Enough!" interrupted Eamon in a mighty roar. "Alistair, you and the Warden are fine. We all know that Fort Draken guards would hardly be an issue for either of you." He turned to Anora. "But you have hardly done anything to earn our trust."

Anora scowled, "I have come to you because my father has gone mad. We can help each other: you seek support at the Landsmeet, and who better to speak for you than the Queen?"

"And…?" Solona questioned.

"And, I have information that may help you," Anora claimed, grasping for straws, "The Alienage! There has been unrest there since Ostagar, and the very few elves followed the army into battle. It must have something to do with my father and Howe."

The queen scanned her audience. Although they had backed down, they were clearly not completely convinced. "Please," she requested, "Consider it." With a sharp turn, Anora faced Solona "Warden, I would like a word with you in private." And with that, she departed.

Alistair shook his head in disbelief. "Lemon it is then."

* * *

Alistair giggled to himself. This is an excellent idea. Probably the very best that he had ever had. Compounding the Landsmeet with the Blight, things had been rather dire for far too long. He had seen the way that the stress had worn upon Solona. With dark circles under her eyes and a lirium potion constantly in her hand, Alistair knew she was wearing thin. It seemed like a lifetime since he had heard the sweet ring of joy in her laughter.

Alistair had hidden himself within the dressing closest of Solona's room at Arl Eamon's estate. Using an old templar skill, he felt along the Veil for the slightest disturbance that would signal the approach of a mage. She should not be long now. He could hardly imagine Solona spending hours chatting away with Anora, as she could with Leliana.

The thought darkened Alistair's mood for a moment. He liked Leliana – he really did - but he did not like how she _touched_ Solona. At first, she had just played with the mage's hair. Then it was the occasional shoulder rub and later the overly long embrace. Now, Maker's breath, Leliana practically clung to his lover day and night. More than once he had snuck across camp, intent upon worshipping Solona from top to bottom, only to find the pair curled up and asleep together. Alistair scowled. Sure, hot, right? But that came as small comfort when he was forced to relieve himself, alone and ashamed in his own tent. Solona shrugged off his complaints, claiming they were just sisterly friends. Sisters did not cuddle like that; Alistair was sure of it.

And then there was Zevran. The Crow had the decency to be honest about his intents, but that really did nothing to assuage Alistair's ire. The elf had propositioned Solona, Alistair, Solona and Alistair, and Solona, Alistair and Wynne on more than one occasion! Of course Solona just laughed it off as impish teasing. Maker, was the girl so naïve that she did not realize that Zevran would happily leap into bed with all three of them?

The Veil trembled, interrupting Alistair from his thoughts. A mage approached. Footsteps and the soft creak of a door opening and closing soon followed. His lover had arrived. Alistair grinned, waiting for her to come just a bit closer…

Alistair let forth a sustained Cleansing Aura, briefly preventing any spells from being cast in the area. With a flash of adrenaline, he burst forth from the closet, grabbed the mage behind the knees, and threw her over his shoulder. Sprinting forward, he deposited her onto the waiting bed.

"Fool! I will turn you into a toad!" came a shriek.

Alistair looked down. Maker's mercy, it was Morrigan upon the bed. His mouth fell open in horror.

"No," seethed Morrigan. "Do not speak. Do not move. If it were not for the Warden, I would gut you in your sleep!" she exclaimed as she rose twitching in fury from the bed.

She marched towards the door, stopping only to point an accusing finger at him. "Sleep well, Fool. Tomorrow you will do so from a pond!" Morrigan hissed, before slamming the door behind her.

Oh sweet Andraste save him. He was a dead man.

"So, you understand my dilemma?" asked Anora.

Solona nodded dumbly, wanting nothing more than this meeting to be over. She had delayed visiting Anora for over a day, but at the Arl's badgering had finally gone to face the Queen. Maker, but Anora was the least personable human she had ever met! Every word the Queen spoke sounded like it was meant for the ears of a simpleton. Solona wanted nothing more than to stand up and declare that she was a Circle Mage and a Grey Warden, not some common fool. Yet, she held her tongue and nodded like that common fool instead.

The matter was much simpler than Anora would have had her believe. The Queen wanted to keep her crown, but her father was a raving lunatic. Thus, Anora wanted Solona's support at the Landsmeet. It was really that simple. The fact that Alistair had a stronger claim never even broached the conversation.

Alistair. He was the heart of the problem, wasn't he? The man who should be king. The man who would give anything to not be king. Solona rubbed her brow and gave a wistful thought to the lirium potion awaiting her in her chambers. There was no doubt in her mind that Alistair would be a brilliant king; his sense of justice was unparalleled and his loyalty was unending. He would do what was right for the people, at the cost of all else.

Solona looked up to regard Anora as she prattled away about how she would be best for the nation. Solona raised an eyebrow: the queen fiddled with her fingers like a hapless Circle apprentice. How very… unregal. With a sigh, Solona continued to nod as Anora carried on and on. Ferelden seemed to run well enough under Anora's rule. Supposedly it was she, and not Cailan, who had run the country for the past five years. And yet Anora had a ruthless streak - there was no denying it. She also had the faint glint of vanity and self-interest in her eyes. Was she a perfect queen? No. But was she good enough? Yes. Anora would do what was best for Ferelden … even at the cost of its people.

"Yes." Solona finally spoke up, interrupting Anora's speech. "Yes, I will support you at the Landsmeet."

"Oh. Very well then," replied Anora, clearly relieved but still picking at her fingers.

With a nod, Solona rose and departed for her chambers. A voice of guilt began to rise within her heart. Had she done it in the interest of the nation? Or had she done it to keep Alistair for herself?

* * *

Alistair was a lucky, lucky man. It had been nearly an hour since the disaster with Morrigan and he was still alive and well. He had resumed his position within Solona's closest and was smiling once more. If at first you don't succeed…

A ripple on the Veil and the sound of footsteps alerted him to an approaching mage. Alistair had learned from his mistakes and had left the closet doors cracked slightly open. He peered out from within the shadows. Success! It was Solona entering the room. Maker's breath but she was beautiful. From the dark braids that twisted through her hair, to the soft grey of her eyes, to the blue tattoos that skirted her right eye, to the sweet pink of her lips. Alistair was enraptured by her.

She closed the door gently behind her and walked straight to the desk on the far side of the room. Alistair strained to see as Solona opened the top drawer and removed a small bottle. With an unceremonious flourish, she raised the bottle to her lips and consumed its contents in a single pull. Lirium. Alistair frowned. She had really been drinking too much of it lately; he would speak to her about it when he got the chance. But not now. Now he had other plans…

Once more, he cast a Cleansing Aura, burst from the closest and threw his beloved over his shoulder. She gave a panicked shriek as he threw her onto the bed.

Solona blinked in disbelief. "Alistair? What in the Maker's name are –"

She was cut off as her fellow Warden leapt into the bed next to her and silenced her with a kiss. The taste of lirium was still upon her lips.

When they broke apart Solona tried again. "Alistair?"

"Shhh," he whispered as he began working the dreadful clasps of her robe free. "I'm not the incredibly dashing and handsome Alistair that you know. I'm a dastardly rogue come to have my evil way with an innocent maiden."

"Oh really?" Solona asked with a smile.

"Mhmmm" was Alistair's reply as he reigned light kisses along her jaw and down her neck. He had given up on the clasps and contented himself with running his hands up beneath Solona's robe and along her soft thighs.

"Maker preserve me!" Solona exclaimed in a sweet tone. "If only there was some strong, brave, handsome knight to rescue me." Alistair smiled against her neck as she played along. Maker's breath he loved her.

"Sten! Save me!" she shouted.

Alistair froze and then looked up to glare at his beloved. "That's not funny," he glowered.

"Oh? I thought it was funny," Solona replied with an innocent smile.

"Well it isn't" Alistair pouted, "Now I have to ravish you twice over in punishment."

Solona leaned forward until her lips brushed against Alistair's ear. With a warm breath she whispered, "Promises, promises…" and traced his earlobe with the tip of her tongue. Taking his hand in hers, she led him to their own paradise.

When they found their breath once more and their hearts had finally calmed, the lovers curled up beneath a blanket. Solona lay upon her side with Alistair curved in against her back. His arm held her snuggly against his chest. His breath flickered lightly across her cheek.

"I've agreed to support Anora at the Landsmeet," Solona whispered, half hoping Alistair was already asleep.

"What?" Alistair asked, sitting up.

Solona swallowed hard. She had hoped that perhaps he would be pleased with the news. She turned to look into his puzzled eyes. "I told her I would support her bid for the crown."

Alistair did not answer. Nor did he give any sign of approval.

"You said you never wanted to be king."

"No." Alistair finally replied, "You're right. It's best." He could see that Solona was still worried about his reaction. Settling back down on the bed, he tucked her against his chest once more. "Go to sleep, love. Tomorrow will be a long day."

Alistair remained awake for many hours after he felt Solona drift into sleep. He watched silently as his lover murmured in her sleep, moving only to brush away the hairs that fell across her brow. He could not help but feel that something was very wrong about Anora taking up the throne. She had proven herself to be a competent ruler, and Maker knew he did not want the crown himself; yet something boded ill.

Solona tossed suddenly, and whimpered gently against Alistair's chest. He worried about her dreams of in the Fade; even sleep could be dangerous for mages. Alistair pressed a gentle kiss upon her brow. With Anora on the throne, he would be free to live his life with Solona. Yes, this must be the right course of action.

"Shh," he whispered, as he curled in closer to her. "I love you. Always."

* * *

**EDIT: 06/06/2012:**_ Apparently the Ban Hammer is coming down hard on story ratings. I still don't really understand the rating system, so I've removed the even vaguely spicy bit for now._

**A/N**: _This is what I hope to be the start of a fairly long series that extends far past the end of Dragon Age: Origins. You may have noticed that some of the dialogue does not match the game exactly… but oh well._

_As always, thanks for reading, and tea with cakies to anyone that reviews._


	3. Chapter 2: The Storm

**Chapter 2: The Storm**

**A/N:** _umm... its a bit long, and pretty Landsmeety. Skim away if you desire, or come back in Chapter 4 for something new._

_

* * *

  
_

The quartet trudged into Arl Eamon's Denerim estate. The day had gone nothing as they would have expected.

Following a day's rest and recovery from their ordeal at Fort Draken, the Grey Wardens had set out to investigate the rumors of unrest in Denerim's Elven Alienage. It was only meant to be a brief information-gathering excursion; most of their companions had opted to remain at Eamon's estate. Only Solona's mabari hound Daro and Zevran had decided to trail along. Zevran was curious to see if his brethren in Denerim faired any better than those in Antiva. Daro had come simply because there was a massive tree in the Alienage he very much wished to mark…

It was a disaster.

They had barely entered the Alienage when Solona caught a foul air and went running to a gutter to be ill. She had seen her fair share of death, but this was different. The Alienage reeked of something new: _slow_ death. Decay. Hopelessness.

The diseased elves they passed in the streets had a special treatment for each of them. To Zevran, they glared with mistrusting eyes; he was an elf, but he was not _one of them._ In Alistair, they saw another guard come to abuse them. A handful recognized Solona to be a mage. They swarmed around her and fell upon shaking knees, begging her to heal them.

The excursion declined considerably from there.

Their quiet investigation had the Wardens scour the very bowels of the Alienage. Empty rooms whispered tales of stolen lives. And - oh Maker preserve them - the Orphanage. Their dreams would be haunted by the echoes of lost children for many nights to come.

It was late evening by the time they returned. They had gone directly to Eamon and related their awful tale. Solona could not help but feel a tremor of disgust in her stomach when Eamon revealed how pleased he was that Loghain was selling elves into slavery.

The Arl confirmed that the Landsmeet would begin the next morning, and urged them all to get some rest.

"Alistair," Eamon called as the party began to depart, "I would like a word with you."

The Wardens paused, passing each other questioning looks. Alistair took Solona's hand and pressed a light kiss upon its back. "I'll catch up with you later." Solona gave him a small smile, and made her way downstairs to check in upon their companions.

After nodding through Wynne's scolding of worry, and Sten's admonishments for irresponsibility, Solona trekked to her quarters to bathe and sleep. She was in no mood to entertain any more of Eamon's or Anora's ambitions tonight.

As she settled herself into bed, Solona felt shame well up from deep within. Back in the Alienage, the Master Slaver, Caladrius, had offered to augment her powers with the slaves' live forces. Solona rarely prayed, but tonight she begged the Maker to forgive her – she had considered accepting Caladrius' offer. At the time, she had told herself that any measure to end the Blight was worth it. The elves in the cages had looked so pitiful – so _lifeless - _anyways. If it had not been for Alistair's stern refusal, Solona feared she may have accepted.

Downing two bottles of lyrium, Solona doused her worries and willed herself to sleep.

* * *

Alistair followed Eamon back into his study. The Arl motioned at him to close the door behind him. Alistair raised an eyebrow. It was rare for Eamon to require secrecy from his own household. Even the arguments with the Queen had been done with an open door for all to hear.

Suddenly at ill ease, Alistair flopped onto one of the waiting lounge chairs and began fiddling with a candelabrum on the adjacent table.

"I've been wondering," began Eamon, "How much thought have you given to being king?"

Alistair shrugged. "Oh, you know, just what colour of throne and whether I'll look good in tights. I've always been partial to trousers, but you really never know..." He looked up meet the Arl's gaze. Eamon was not amused.

Eamon rubbed his brow. "Please my boy, be serious for once."

Alistair turned back to the candelabra. What was he supposed to say? _Sorry Eamon, but Solona picked Anora and I'm too much a coward to object_? "You know I've never wanted to be king." he said instead.

"But Duty compels you," replied the Arl, "And there are things you must consider before the Landsmeet."

Alistair remained silent. With a distant look, he flipped a candle over to examine its bottom.

After a few drawn moments, Eamon broke the silence, "What of Solona?"

"What about her?"

"Well, for one thing, she's a mage."

"Oh good," Alistair replied. "It's so nice when people notice. It saves the whole awkward 'watch out, she might turn into an Abomination and eat your soul' talk."

Eamon ignored this and continued on "And, she's a Grey Warden."

"Wow - me too!" Alistair chimed in.

The Arl sighed. "The point is, Alistair, for all that you may love her, she can't be your queen."

Alistair sobered. This was not the conversation he had expected. "My queen?" he asked. "You're getting a bit ahead of yourself, aren't you?"

"We're talking about the future of a country. We have to think far ahead," Eamon replied. "You've been together for nearly a year now, yes?"

Alistair nodded carefully.

"And you love her, yes?" the Arl continued.

Eamon took the silence that followed as a confirmation. "Then you must end it, my boy," he spoke gently to his former ward. "She is a mage, a commoner and a Grey Warden. The Landsmeet will never accept her. It will look like we're trying to give the country to the Wardens. Besides, you know mages can't have titles."

"… Wardens can't have titles either. So I guess I can't be king then" Alistair argued.

The Arl disregarded this and continued on, "You will need an heir to stabilize Ferelden. Any child Solona bore would belong to the Chantry."

"Then I won't take the blasted crown," Alistair stated.

"As king, you could do so much good for Ferelden," Eamon coaxed. "Those elves you saw? You could change all of that – give them a real chance. Anora does not care about them. You said that things need to change; Anora will only maintain the status quo. Yes, you will have to make sacrifices, but this is the _right_ thing to do."

Alistair rose to leave. He was tired and wanted nothing more to do with it.

"Please Alistair. Think about it," the Arl called after him.

Alistair made his way through the estate to Solona's chambers. He opened the door and crept silently towards the bed. A single candle illuminated his sleeping lover.

Alistair tucked himself into bed next to Solona's sleeping form. She must have been exhausted; for once she did not toss restlessly about. With gentle hands, he pulled her into his arms, and placed a soft kiss against her crown.

"Alistair?" Solona mumbled, half awoken.

"Shh," he whispered into her hair. "Go back to sleep."

Let Anora have the bloody crown. He would keep his beloved.

* * *

The next morning was a flurry of chaos. Arl Eamon had gone ahead to the Landsmeet, urging the Wardens to follow as quickly as possible. There had been some debate as to who should accompany them. An apostate would hardly gain them support, and Morrigan was only too happy to remain. Likewise, Leliana, Sten, and Zevran were foreigners and not welcome at a meeting of government. Bringing a dog, mabari or not, would be seen as disrespectful and bringing a golem would just be … distracting. That left only the Wardens, Wynne and Oghren.

They had been waylayed by the usual confrontations of guards, assassins and thugs, but this was hardly anything new. They were late, but they arrived at the palace nonetheless.

Solona Amell entered the Landsmeet.

At her side marched her companions. Behind her, Ser Cauthrien knelt and begged whispered forgiveness from Andraste. Before her stood Loghain Mac Tir, Teyrn of Gwaren and Regent of the Crown.

"… and here she is now: the Puppet Master." Loghain shouted as he gestured grandly at Solona. "Tell us, Warden, how will the Orlesians take our country? Will they deign to send their troups? Or will they simply issue their commands through this would-be prince?"

"...._wanker_..." came a cough. Solona spun around to glare at Oghren. The warrior would only shrug, "Just saying..."

Solona made her way to the front of the Landsmeet. The Teyrn glared at her, but she held her ground.

"What did they offer you?" Loghain snarled. "How much is the price of Ferelden's honour now?"

The air became thicker as the tension of the hall rolled against it. Solona fought to retain her composure. "The Blight is the threat here, not the Orlesians," she spoke clear and true.

A chorus of agreement came tumbling down with the nobles in the balconies above.

Loghain scoffed. "The Wardens claim only they can end the Blight, yet they failed spectacularly at Ostagar," he began. "They would have us invite four legions of Orlesians into our homelands. And once we open our borders to the Chevaliers, can we really expect them to return from whence they came?"

Solona glanced around the hall. Most of the nobles had darkened at the mention of Ostagar; she dared not try to defend the actions of the Wardens. "You sold Ferelden citizens into slavery to fund your war," she shouted instead.

"What is this? There is no slavery in Ferelden!" a cry came from a Bann.

Loghain rallied effortlessly. "There was no saving the Alienage. After the riots, it was in ruins; bodies still lie in the streets." He turned to Solona. "I would not send my worst enemy there. Despite what you may think, Warden, I have done my duty. Whatever my regrets for the elves, I have done what was needed for the good of Ferelden."

The Landsmeet grew silent once more as fury festered within Solona. The nobles did not care about the elves. The Warden attempted another tactic. "Was sending an apostate to poison Eamon your duty as well?" she asked.

Loghain scoffed. "I assure you, if I was going to send someone, I would send my own troops. I would not trust it to an apostate."

From high on a balconey above, Bann Alfstanna stepped forward. "My brother tells another story," she shouted. "He says you snatched a blood mage from his grasp. Coincidence?"

It was now the Revered Mother's turn to speak. "Do not think that the Chantry will overlook this, Teyrn Loghain," she warned. "Interfering with a templar's sacred duty is an offense against the Maker."

A torrent of whispers rose from the Landsmeet. Apparently, selling elves into slavery was frowned upon, but attacking a noble – one of their own – was unforgivable.

Still, Loghain remained unapologetic. "Whatever I have done, I will answer for to the Maker," he said. The Teyrn forcussed his attention upon Solona once more. "But tell me Warden, what have you done with my daughter?"he asked.

Solona was taken aback. "What I have I done? I rescued her from Howe. I've protected her from you!" she replied.

"You took my daughter, our Queen, by force – killing her guards in the process," accused Loghain, taking an offensive strike. "Does she even still live?"

"I believe I can speak for myself," came a call from the back of the hall. A collective gasp filled the room as Queen Anora stepped out into view. "Lords and Ladies of the Landsmeet, hear me!" she ordered. "My father has gone mad. He is no longer the Hero of Riverden. He abandoned his king at Ostagar, leaving Cailan to die bravely fighting the Darkspawn. He took Cailan's throne before his body was even cold. He then locked me away so I could not reveal his treachery."

Solona tried not to grimace. Anora's take was _mostly _truthful. Yet, Ostagar was almost a year ago, and the Queen had only become concerned with the truth in the last fortnight.

"So, the Warden's influence has poisoned even your mind, Anora. I wanted to protect you from this," lamented Loghain. He turned his back to his daughter. "My Lords and Ladies," he called to the Landsmeet. "Ferelden has been conquered, divided and liberated times uncountable. But we have shown that so long as we remain united, we can never truly be conquered." The Teyrn seemed to grown before Solona's eyes. "Stand with me," he shouted, "and we shall defeat this Blight!"

There was an awful moment of silence as Doubt began to fester within Solona. What would they do if the Landsmeet stood against them? The Teyrn was obviously mad, but surely some pompous nobles would support him. They would need every vote they could muster... and where the bloody hell was Teagan?

"The South throw their lot in with the Grey Wardens, Maker help us," a noble shouted.

"Waking Sea is with the Warden!" cried Bann Alfstanna.

Solona breathed a sigh of relief as more support followed. They did not receive every vote, but it was enough.

Loghain was furious. "Traitors!" he screamed. "Which of you stood against the Orlesian Emperor when his Chevaliers flattened your fields and raped your wives?" The Teyrn spun about, sparing none his accusing glare. "None of you have spilled blood as I have spilled blood. How dare you judge me?!" He drew his sword and advanced towards the crowd of nobles. Behind him, his guards followed suit.

In an instant, Oghren and Alistair were at Solona's side. Alistair's hand landed upon Solona's shoulder, ready to push her behind him; she shrugged him off. There were too many innocents here to risk a fight.

"Call off your men and we will settle this honourably," she urged.

The Teyrn considered for a moment, and then nodded to his guards to sheeth their weapons. "Then let us end this," he conceded. "I suppose we both knew it would come to this, but I would have never thought it would be _you_." He shook his head lightly. "We are judged by the quality of our enemies – Maric told me that. I wonder if it says more about you or me..." He took in a deep breath. "Very well. The Landsmeet shall decide the terms."

Solona blinked. Terms? What terms?

Bann Alfstanna took the floor once more. "It shall be fought according to tradition: single armed combat, until one falls. And we of the Landsmeet will abide by its outcome."

A duel? Solona was not prepared for this. She had only meant that if Loghain surrendered, he would be given a fair trial and due process. Not a duel! She scanned the crowd. They were set upon this. There was no backing out of it now.

Alistair stepped forward and drew his sword. Solona stopped him. "No, it should be me," she whispered.

Alistair shook his head. "I'm not going to let you fight him. He's huge! He probably eats little mages for breakfast with toast and jelly. And frankly, my dear, you're awful with a sword," he answered in a hushed tone.

"No," Solona said. "I'll have him hexed asleep in half a second. No blood. No gore. No one gets hurt. It's better like this." She gave him a reassuring smile. "I'll be fine."

With a deep sigh, Alistair nodded in defeated agreement.

Solona drew her sword, the_ Spellweaver_, more for show than intent. She stepped forward. "I will fight this duel myself," she announced.

Loghain nodded. "It is you or me the men will follow. Prepare youself," he commanded.

The pair circled each other with cautious steps. Around them, the members of the Landsmeet had formed a tight ring to gain the best view. With swords drawn and a mutual nod, the duel began.

Solona cast the hex of sleep upon Loghain; his eyes barely fluttered. She frowned and quickly cast it again. This time, he did not so much as blink. Solona's confidence wained – the Teyrn had Willpower like she had never before seen. No one had ever resisted her Entropy spells so effortlessly before. Even Morrigan would have been nappping soundly on the floor by now.

The Teyrn took a step forward, narrowing their circle. Solona floundered for a different spell. If she wished to bend Loghain to her will, she could use that _other _spell. No. She crushed the idea. Grey Warden or not, using Blood Magic here would lose them all support. She reached into her knowledge of the Primal Schools instead. She wanted nothing more than to conjure a Tempest where they stood and be done with this, but there too many bystanders. Why were the fool nobles standing so close? They were dueling not dancing!

With a shout, Loghain raised his sword and charged at her. Solona readied a simple charm of frost to freeze the Teyrn in place, and … the Veil vanished. Solona panicked – Templar magics! She jumped back and clumsily lifted her sword, blocking most of the blow.

Loghain sneered at her and whispered. "Thirty years upon the battle fields...Did you really think I didn't pick up a trick or two?" He gave her a forceful shove, and Solona went flying onto her back. _Spellweaver_ went skittering off towards the crowd. The Teyrn lifted his sword to make a killing blow, but Solona managed to roll away – a heartbeat too slow. His blade sliced down the side of her arm before contacting the cold stone below.

Solona gave a hiss of pain as she sprang back to her feet. She clutched at her wound as her sleave soaked through with blood.

From the crowd, Alistair shot forward to come to her aid, only to be held back by Oghren. "She's got to do it herself, boy. You can't stop a duel."

"He's cheating!" barked Alistair. "He's using Templar techniques to block her magic."

"What? Using magic ain't cheatin' too?" the dwarf asked. "Here, have a swill of Ol' Oghren's brew," he added, handing a flask to Alistair. "It takes the sting outta it."

Alistair shoved it back to his companion in disgust. Nonetheless, he remained with the onlookers, praying that Solona would be unharmed. Or at very least, that she would know when to surrender.

Solona was frantic. A thousand spells ran through her mind; yet, none would work if she could not find access to the Fade. Her mind reached blindly for any hint of the Veil. There was none; she was alone.

Her opponent seemed to be taking his time, savouring the impending victory. He continued to circle her, but Solona had no illusions that this would last; the circle was getting smaller with each pass.

The memories of her lessons with Alistair broke free into Solona's mind. Her lover had shown her how to throw off a Templar's hold. Taking a sharp breath, she began to unwind the ties that Loghain had placed before the Veil. A small hole appeared; it was enough to reach through to the Fade for small spells. She would have to build up her magic slowly in pieces. There was only one option for such a spell: a Crushing Prison. Grimacing as she stretched her mind to grasp upon the distant threats of theVeil, Solona cast the first bar.

Sensing a change, Loghain shot forward to strike once more. Solona ducked and dove across the ring towards her sword. She grasp the pommel and rose to her feet in a single move. A gasp and applause came from the crowd. She paid them no attention as she cast her second bar. The Teyrn charged towards Solona once more. She parried weakly, her arms threatening to give out.

Loghain's foot shot out, delivering a crushing blow to Solona's stomach. Once more she went flying backwards. She curled up weakly upon the unforgiving stone.

Loghain advanced, almost swaggering, towards the mage as she clutched at her stomach. She writhed pitifully, and coughed up a slough of blood and bile.

"Give in," he coaxed, as he approached. "Without your magic, you are nothing."

Solona moaned from her position upon the floor. He was right, without magic she was weak. She shook her head; she would not surrender.

The Teyrn advanced. "Then I will make it a clean death," he announced, taking another step. Loghain readied himself to strike – and froze. With a look of puzzlement, he dropped his sword and pushed at an invisible barrier. Solona had cast her third, and final, bar. Loghain was trapped within the triangular prison.

Solona winced and tried to sit upright. Before her, the Teyrn beat against the invisible walls to no avail. She could feel him once more try to hide the Veil; she had to act quickly. With a simple flick of the wrist, the walls of the barrier began to close in upon themselves. The prison shrunk and shrunk, until Loghain was being crushed within it.

A sickening _crack_ reverbrated throughout the hall as the Teyrn's arm broke. His hold upon the Veil vanished completely, giving Solona free reign of her magics once more. With a releaved groan, she began casting a healing spell upon her stomach, stopping her interal bleeding. Unfortunately, Creation had never been her strongest school; her arm would have to wait.

From his prison, the Teryn finally gave in. "Enough!" he cried.

Solona relaxed the spell. Loghain was still imprisoned, but no longer crushed bythe force. She stumbled to her feet to approach him.

Loghain let his head fall in defeat. "I underestimated you," he breathed. "I thought you were like Cailan – a child playing at a war. I was wrong. There is a strength in you that I have not seen since Maric died." He fell down upon his kneels. "I yield."

Solona struggled to remain calm. Her arm continued to stream dark trails of blood down and along her finger tips. She clenched her hand into a fist. Why had Loghain surrendered? Weren't knights supposed to die in battle? What was she supposed to do with him now? Cackle madly and scorch him to embers, or pat his head and send him merrily on his way? Surrender was not a noble choice.

From all angles of the hall, Solona could feel the eyes of the Landsmeet baring down upon her. She winced as Wynne rushed forward and began to fuss over the gash in her arm. Lyrium called to her, but she could not induldge infront of the nobles. "I accept," she relented, finally.

Alistair tore his eyes away from the Teyrn, "I did _not_ just hear that. You're going to let him live after everything he's done? Kill him already!" he shouted.

"Wait!" a call echoed from the behind a crowd of noblemen. Riordan stepped forward.

"There may be another option. The Teyrn is a warrior and general of renown. Let him be of use. Let us put him through the Joining." The Orlesian Warden turned to Alistair and Solona, and continued, "There are only three of us in all of Ferelden. And there are … compelling reasons to have as many Grey Wardens on hand as possible when we face the archdemon."

Anora spoke up, "I understand the Joining is often fatal. If my father survives, you will gain a general. If he does not, you have your revenge."

Alistair shot forward. "Absolutely not!" he shouted, slicing his arms across his chest in emphasis.

The flurry startled Solona, and she took a cautious step backwards. This was not the Alistair she knew. The jokes and awkward indecision had fled, leaving a man with rage and want. He was a mirror to Loghain.

Alistair pointed himself towards the elder Warden. "Riordan, this man abandoned our brothers and blamed us for the deed. He hunted us down like animals. He tortured you!" he shouted. With shaking fingers, Alistair ran his fingers through his sandy hair. He shook his head and turned to Solona for support. "How can you simply forget that?" he breathed.

Inside her mind, Solona screamed to the heavens above. 'Compelling reasons'? Riordan knew something import – something dire and would not say it. More mystery and lies! How many times would she be Harrowed? Solona gave another mental scream, and fought the urge to run to Riordan and shake the very Truth from his lips. Why had Duncan not told them more?

_We must live a selfless life. It is our duty and our privilege_. Duncan's words rushed through Solona's mind. They could not allow their selfish need for vengeance destroy the Greater Good. Surely Alistair would understand this. Solona pulled a deep breath deep into her lungs. All she need do was remain firm upon her ground, and Alistair would surely follow.

"Riordan is right," she spoke. "We should put him through the Joining."

And that should have been that.

Alistair's face sang red. He was not relenting. "Joining the Wardens is an honour, not a punishment," he argued. "Make him a Warden and you cheapen us all. I will not stand next to him as a brother. I won't!"

This time, Alistair's words had been directly solely to Solona. He was being selfish and childish and foolish, and yet it was _she_ that was being overcome with guilt. Solona glanced downwards, suddenly unable to hold her lover's gaze. "We need all the help we can get," she mumbled.

The hall was hung in silence save for the soft falling of Alistair's pacing footsteps. Solona waited with heart racing. A moment passed. A lifetime passed. Finally Alistair pierced the quiet, "I never wanted to be king," he addressed the Landsmeet. "I still don't. But, if that is what it takes to see Loghain face Justice, I'll do it. I'll take to the crown."

Solona's world shattered.

"Listen to this!" shouted Anora. "Can you see how disastrous a king he'd be, putting his own selfish desires above the needs of his country?" She stormed towards Solona and glared into her eyes "You can't seriously support him?"

But she did support him. Solona knew Alistair had the potential to be an unparalleled ruler. Perhaps it was Maric's blood within him, but for all that Alistair followed her, he truly was a born leader. Yes, right now, at this single moment, he was being a selfish fool; yet, how many times had Solona seen him willing to sacrifice all that he was?

Solona had seen the shade of ego and mercilessness in Anora. The queen had simply stood by and allowed her father to take to the throne. And the elves. The poor elves, rotting in their own skins. Anora had to have known. It had been nearly a year since Ostagar, and only now was the queen attempting to make amends. It was too little, and much, much too late.

Which left only one thing: Solona's heart. If Alistair took the crown, it could very well be the end of them. For so long now, she had harboured a dream of defeating the Blight and riding off into the Grey Warden sunset, with Alistair at her side. _We must live a selfless life_. The words pulsed through her mind once more. Solona knew what she must do. And yet, perhaps this would not be the end of their romance. If he loved her so very much as he claimed, or at least half so much as she did he, Alistair would fight for her. And she would fight for him.

"I stand by Alistair. He will be the new king," Solona announced.

The hall erupted in a torrent of whispers.

"You can't do this!" exclaimed Anora. "My father may be wrong, but he is still a hero to the people."

Kneeling and, for the first time in his life, humbled, Loghain spoke, "Hush now, Anora. It's over."

The former queen turned and spat at her father "Stop treating me as a child. This is serious"

Loghain closed his eyes, and slowly shook his head. "Daughters remain six years old with pig tails and skinned knees forever." He affixed his gaze upon Solona, "Just make it quick. I can face the Maker knowing that Ferelden is in your hands." His words rang with sincerity.

And suddenly, Loghain was just a man. In Solona's mind he had been everything from a hero of legends, to the very archdemon itself. But never _just a man_. He knelt with eyes closed, and chest rising sharply with each breath; Solona could not help but see the traces of fear he tried so hard to hide. He as just a man - an old man - for whom his daughter now cried silently.

Solona drew her sword with shaking hands. This was the moment of which Zevran had warned: the moment when she would cut down a human with her own hands. In their brief training sessions, the elf had advised that it would not be the same as using magic. There was something entirely different about ending a life with a blade. The feel of piercing flesh. The reverberations of draining away a life. The first time, Zevran had cautioned, would cut her as deeply as it would cut her victim.

Solona's gazed drifted between Loghain's kneeling form, and Anora's silent tears. Her arm gave out and the tip of her sword fell to the ground. Solona turned away. "I can't. I can't do it," she whispered.

Alistair stepped forward. "I'll do it," he spoke firmly as he drew his sword. "I owe Duncan that."

With a flash of silver and a stream of crimson, it was over.

* * *

In the dining hall of Arl Eamon's Denerim estate, a clock ticked away with maddening pulses. The mage Warden and her companions sat in near silence, awaiting the return of Eamon and their future king.

The Landsmeet had concluded some hours earlier. Alistair was given the throne, and Anora was sent to fester in a tower. The Arl had urged Solona and her companions to return to his estate to rest; he and Alistair were to meet briefly with the nobles and join them presently.

For Solona, the seconds drew by as years. She had not managed to pull Alistair away from a private word following the Landsmeet. Her heart raced with anxiety; Solona needed Alistair to reassure her of their future.

Around her, Solona's companions were no more at ease. In the chair next to her, Leliana plucked at her lute tunelessly. Next to her, Wynne had produced a book and pretended to read. Oghren nursed a skin of some variety of ale. At a safe distance, Zevran tossed a dagger up and down, mindlessly. Meanwhile, Sten, Shale and Morrigan tried their very best to feign indifference; they failed.

The tedium was broke with a piercing crack as the hall's doors burst open and Alistair marched through. Solona's breath caught within her chest; he was suddenly very much a king. When she did manage to breathe once more, Solona scrambled to her lover. She wanted to fly into his arms and hear him say that everything was fine.

Alistair's arms shot out and he stopped her short of his embrace. "We need to talk," he said plainly.

Solona nodded, painfully aware of the eight sets of ears straining to hear their conversation.

"I don't question what you did or why you did it," he began. "You knew I didn't want to be king … but being king raises some questions about you and me."

The words stung Solona. What did he mean, what _she_ had done? It was his choice to take the crown. It was his choice to kill Loghain. She had given him everything that he asked. The room seemed to shrink around them as Solona's heart quickened. "What sorts of questions?" she asked, not truly wanting to know the answer.

Alistair's tone softened as his kingly aura faded. "First, there is the fact that you and I are both Grey Wardens. It's not just a question of obligation, but of blood," he explained. "You know that Grey Wardens don't usually live to become old…" Alistair's voice trailed off. He swallowed hard. It was clear he did not want to say the words; his eyes begged for understanding.

Solona could feel what was coming. Sorrow and anguish began to boil within her stomach. _No_. She would not believe it until he said it. _She loved him._ She _must_ fight for him. Solona lifted a soft hand to his cheek. "We don't have to grow old together, do we?" she whispered hopefully, a sad smile upon her lips.

Alistair pulled away from her touch. His eyes fell downwards, unable to meet her gaze. "Maybe not," he choked. "But that's not in the cards anyways… even more so, since my death is assured. That's assuming someone with the taint can, or even should, have a child."

Cold tears began to form in the corner of Solona's eyes. "I … I don't…" she tried to speak, but could not find the words. She was falling.

"Both of us have tainted blood. Both of us will die young. I will need to marry a wife that can bare a child and live to raise it." Alistair tried. His voice shook as though he, himself, could not believe his words. He took a sharp breath, and forced his eyes to meet hers. "I love you. More than I ever thought possible...but I have to face what this means. I can't run away from it anymore. I can see it being very hard to tear myself away from you. If this must be … then, I have to do it now. I'm sorry"

The tears now followed freely down Solona's cheeks. She wanted to fall to her knees and beg him to stay; didn't he realize that without him, she had nothing left? She had no home, no family, and without him, she would have no heart.

"Why do this now? Why not wait to see what happens" she asked, desperate for any chance. "We could die before this Blight is over."

Alistair shook his head. The sorrow written upon him only broke Solona's heart twice over. "If I don't end it now, I fear I will never be able to," he answered, voice hoarse and wavering. "I'm sorry, but I have no choice."

Solona gave a soft sob. "So this is it. It's over…"

"I think it is best. For both of us." Alistair replied.

"Don't do this, Alistair," she whispered.

"It has to be," he said, as he turned away. "I need to go to camp… be by myself for a while."

With that, the only man Solona had ever loved – the only man she _would_ ever love – walked away. She dropped her knees with a strangled cry.

A low growl came from behind "Sodding nug humper…"

Solona flushed crimson. Her broken heart now had a companion: Humiliation. Her entire conversation with Alistair had taken place under the watchful eyes of their friends. In her self-pity, Solona had forgotten all about them. She turned her head to regard them. Some looked at her with sympathy. Some tried very hard not to look at her.

Solona looked up when she felt a hand upon her shoulder. "My dear..." Wynne began with a sad expression, "perhaps this _is_ for the best…"

Leliana appeared silently at her side, and wrapped Solona in a crushing embrace. "You do not need a foolish man," she cooed. "You are strong and beautiful and -".

Solona broke away from the pair away and stumbled blindly towards the doors. She could not face them.

* * *

It was late evening when Solona finally reached their camp on the outskirts of Denerim. She had wandered the city's byways aimlessly as the sun had set, and somehow, she had ended up here. A full, silver moon now shone down upon her. In her pocket, a half dozen empty bottles quietly rattled in apprehension.

The camp was eerily empty, save for Alistair. He sat upon a fallen log next to a sickly fire; he was slumped forward, with head clutched in hands.

Solona approached him with shaking legs. "Alistair?" she questioned in a soft voice.

Alistair shot to his feet, drawing his blade in an instant. The tip sliced dangerously close to Solona's nose; the gush of air left her braids trembling.

Alistair's eyes widened in shock as he recognized his target. "Maker's breath," he choked, and dropped his sword. It landed with a rustling thud upon the grass behind him. Solona furled her brow; he was never so careless with his weapons. But that was just the start of it. His hair was tussled and his eyes were cracked red. She wrinkled her nose; his breath smelled of ale.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, finally.

Solona swallowed hard. Her heart quaked in broken pieces within, and yet, she was still not ready to give in. "I want to talk to you…" she began. "About us…"

Alistair rubbed a tired hand against his forehead. "I was pretty sure we already said everything that needed saying," he answered. His gaze remained downcast. He would not meet her eyes.

Duncan be damned. Didn't she deserve to be selfish, just once? Solona stepped forward until they almost touched. "I love you. I … I can't…Can you really end it?" she breathed. "Just like that?"

Anger suddenly overcame Alistair's expression. "You think this is easy for me? It isn't!" he barked. He let out a sigh, and forced himself to calm. "I love you. I'll _always_ love you, but there are things that are more important than what I want. I wish it were otherwise." He stepped away from Solona, and slumped once more upon the log.

_No_. He loved her. _No_. She would not take this.

Solona kneeled before Alistair. Taking his hands in hers, she said "It doesn't have to be like that." She willed herself to be hopeful. "We have thirty years still. That is more time than either of us had with our parents. Cailan took the crown before he was thirty." She had no idea if this working. "You said you had never seen a female Warden. Maybe because we both are Tainted …" It was a foolish hope, and she knew it. "Please. We could try. We still have lots of time to raise a child."

Alistair shook his head. "I can't place the fate of all Ferelden on a 'maybe'. Please don't ask me to. Thinking about you is just too painful… and too tempting."

Tears had managed once more to escape in long trails down Solona's cheek. She was desperate now. "I don't need to be queen," she begged. "I don't need to be your wife. You could marry someone and … and have your heir. I just need to be with you."

"And what? Marry some poor woman, knock her up and then abandon her?" Alistair was fuming now. She was losing him. "Maker, Solona, you're asking to be my whore! My wife and child would deserve better than that."

"And what do I deserve?" she whispered.

"Bloody Andraste, what do you want me to say, Solona? You're a mage? You have the Taint? You're not of noble blood? You're probably barren? Any one of those is enough! We have a duty. We can't be together," he shouted.

It was a knife it her heart. Solona was defeated; she could neither fight nor beg anymore. She stood. "You're a coward," she choked. "If you were willing to fight - if you were truly willing to _burn_ for it, we could be together – duty or not. But you're a coward." She turned and willed herself to disappear into the dark forest before she fell to pieces.

* * *

**A/N**: _And that concludes the Landsmeet and its aftermath, which you all already know. Next chapter will be the march to Red Cliff and the final battle of Origins, which you also all know. And then in Chapter 4, finally, the real plot of this story can start. Huzzah._

_I tried to get the dialogue to match the game more this time. Its not 100% - give me a break, I can only remember so much – but the just is there. I also added and removed some bits as I thought necessary. On that note, did anyone else find that fight Loghain as a mage was a bit … anticlimatic?_

_As someone pointed out, yes I did spell "Lyrium" incorrectly in Chapter 1. I realized it as soon as I started this chapter. I sat down, typed "Lyrium" and felt like an idiot…._

_And finally, a shout-out to my 2 readers in Luxemburg. You guys win so hard, it hurts. _


	4. Chapter 3: The March

**Chapter 3: The March**

**A/N**_**:**__ So, good story: turns out I lied. This chapter will be leading up the Final Battle in Chapter 4… So, if you're still looking for the new stuff, you'll have to wait until Chapter 5….. If not, more build up! Hurray!_

_

* * *

  
_

It was the morning after the Landsmeet. Solona Amell's life had ended the evening before, but somehow the sun had still risen. Somehow, the birds still sang their dawn prayers. Somehow, life went on.

Solona had returned to Arl Eamon's Denerim estate just before dawn to collect her companions. Her night had been spent aimlessly wandering the rural outskirts of the city. It was a foolish thing to do on the eve of a grand march. It was an idiotic thing to do alone, cloaked only in darkness.

Solona was an utter mess when she arrived at the estate. Dark circles hung below her red eyes. Her hair was matted; her clothes filthy. It did not matter anymore.

She found her companions – all save _him_ - waiting patiently in the dining hall, picking over their morning meal. None would meet her eye. "We have to get going," she muttered. They rose silently, and collected their belongings.

The first rays of dawn were just breaking over the city's rooftops as they left the estate. A few merchants were already milling about, preparing themselves for their labours. It was strange to see the Market Quarter so quiet. As they reached the city gates, Solona turned one last time to look upon Denerim. For all that it had its rotten corners, it really was a beautiful city. The buildings were grand, and its people were kind. Children were still free to laugh and play. Denerim was _worth_ saving. Solona shook her head; no matter if the Blight ended well or not, she would likely never return.

The Warden and her companions arrived at their camp outside of Denerim as full light reached the lands. Solona scowled; Alistair was still slumped upon the log, fast asleep. She could not decide if she would rather run and beg for his forgiveness, or run and throttle him. Either way, she itched to run to him. Yet, Solona's plans were cut short as Leliana grabbed her arm and pulled her away to collapse the waiting tents.

Instead, it was Oghren who wandered over to the knight's sleep form. "Oi! Wake up!" he shouted. His words were accented with a sharp kick to Alistair's shin.

Alistair groaned and rubbed his burning eyes. He was tired, depressed, and hung-over. The horizon spun as he lifted his head to stare blurredly at Oghren.

The dwarf kicked him again. "You awake yet?" Oghren demanded.

"Umm...yes. Doubly so, even," Alistair answered.

A shadow appeared as the Qunari came to stand over him. "Only a fool sleeps unguarded in the forest," Sten intoned. "You are unworthy."

Alistair rubbed at his throbbing shin. "Gee, thanks," he replied. "And what exactly am I so unworthy of?"

Sten glanced from Alistair, to Solona, and then back again. "Everything," was his only reply.

The future king glanced to where Solona was dutifully packing. She looked awful and beautiful all at once. He turned away; it was still too hard to see her. Instead, he stumbled to his feet as the world lurched mercilessly beneath him. Somehow, he managed to stagger over to where Wynne and Zevran were rolling up the coarse camp blankets.

"Wynne," he gasped. "I'm dying. Really - my head is about to explode. Do you have a potion? Or a guillotine? Anything..."

The Senior Enchanter gave him a sharp _tut_ _tut_. "You should know that a hangover is the Maker's punishment for overindulgence."

"Oh?" asked Zevran. "I thought it was losing your rejected lover to an incredibly handsome and sensually talented elf."

Both Wynne and Alistair shot him a glare of death.

"No? Too soon? Very well then ..." Zevran sighed, and returned to his work.

Wynne gave Alistair a sharp scan from head to toe. Finally, she deepened her scowl and dug into her satchel, tossing him a small red vial. "You don't deserve this," she admonished.

"Yes, yes, I'm unworthy. I know," Alistair nodded as he downed the potion. Within a few seconds, his head began to clear. "Thank you," he added.

Wynne only nodded. As he walked away, she made a mental note to hide the alcohol and the lyrium for the remainder of the journey.

* * *

The party had set out some hours earlier. It had been decided that they would take the northern road to Red Cliff. This way, they could stop at Soldier's Peak to resupply and later join the remaining Circle mages on their journey.

Unlike their travels in the past, this march was mostly silent. There was no sharing of tales nor jokes. Wynne did not give walking lectures on the local floral and fauna. Leliana did not strum casual ditties on her lute. Most noticeable was the separation of the Wardens. They usually walked side by side - or even hand in hand - and whispered endlessly back and forth. Today, Solona marched at the head of the group; Alistair drudged far behind.

The sun now hung high above them, heralding the midday. At Wynne's demand – and Sten's disdain - they had stopped to rest.

Solona collapsed next to Shale, grateful for the shade the massive golem produced.

"Is it a bad day to be a mage?" Shale inquired.

"Everyday is a bad day to be a mage," Solona mumbled. She turned to look up at the golem. "Why do you ask?"

"It seems that It is most unhappy," Shale observed.

Solona furled her brow. 'Unhappy' was a gross understatement. "Yesterday was a long day," she summarized. "I'm tired."

"The Swamp Witch does little but moan and rub at It's squishy head," the golem observed. Solona nodded; it was true. Morrigan was acting strangely – if not uncharacteristically quiet.

"And the Elder Mage – the Fussy Mage," Shale continued, "is... elderly and fussy."

Solona shrugged, "She's probably just tired too; the marching is hard on her. Not all of us can be immortal."

"'Tis the birds," Morrigan spat darkly from her seat behind them. Solona and Shale turned to regard her. "Wynne is fussing because she must find an offering for the birds of the Circle Tower, else they will not let us enter."

"What?!" Shale shouted.

"Oh yes, there are thousands – millions of them there" Morrigan seethed. "We must offer them something... stony, lest they bar our way."

"I most firmly object to this!" replied Shale and marched off to threaten Wynne with a firm crushing.

"That was unkind," Solona tried to scowl; she could not. "And maybe a little funny," she admitted.

Morrigan sighed and rubbed at her temples once more.

"Are you alright?" Solona asked finally.

"'Tis my head," moaned Morrigan. "It feels as though I have sat through a lifetime of Alistair's drivellings." After a moment's reconsideration she added, "And my stomach. The fat estate cook must have poisoned me..."

"Do you need anything?" queried Solona as she tried to ignore the mention of _him._

"Lyrium would help," Morrigan replied, clenching her eyes closed once more.

Solona frowned. Her supply was low as it was; they would not have anymore lyrium until they reached the Circle Tower. For a moment she considered lying – claiming to have none. She promptly scolded herself for being so selfish. Solona reached into her pockets and produced a small bottle for her companion.

Morrigan drank the lyrium and returned to massaging her temples.

"Better?" Solona asked.

"No."

"My, my," began Zevran as he sat down next to Solona. "Headache? Nausea?" he turned and gave Solona a sorrowful shake of the head. "It seems our magical temptress has been unfaithful to me. Who is the father? … Sten? I can't say I blame you. He is so very..._large_." The elf lifted an inquisitive eyebrow. "Or perhaps it was one of your animal friends," he mused. "A bear perhaps? So very kinky, my witchy siren."

Morrigan hissed at him.

Solona actually laughed. It was a relief to be happy again, even for a just a moment.

Sten approached, his scowl deeper than usual.

"So very _very_ large..." Zevran sighed beneath his breath. Solona gave a snort of laughter.

"We're wasting time," Sten complained.

Solona nodded. It was time to get going.

As they rose once more to their feet, Zevran grasped Solona in an unexpected embrace. "You must laugh, my dear," he whispered into her ear. "When you would cry, you must laugh. For me." He placed a light kiss upon her cheek, before turning and continuing down the highway.

* * *

The following days were more of the same. The Wardens tried very hard to avoid one another, while their companions tried to pretend that they were not marching to their deaths.

When they did arrive at Red Cliff, they found the village deserted. After fighting their way through a small horde of besieging Darkspawn, they made their way into the castle to confer with Eamon.

"I have grave news," began the Arl. "Riordan tells us that the Darkspawn horde is headed towards Denerim. They will be there in two days."

Solona wanted to groan aloud. They had just come from Denerim! The Maker had an awful sense of humour.

"What? Are you sure?" questioned Alistair. "If that's true, then..."

"I ventured close enough to listen in, as it were. I am quite sure," Riordan confirmed.

Solona sighed. "Then we need to march at once," she admitted.

There was an awkward silence, as Eamon and Riordan decided who would bare the remaining bad news. Riordan finally spoke up, "There is even more grave news: the archdemon has appeared. It has taken its place at the head of the Darkspawn horde."

Eamon nodded. "We must begin a forced march to the capital immediately with what we have," he ordered. "Denerim must be defended at all costs."

Riordan appeared hesitant. "The horde must be defeated, but the archdemon is our target, and only a Grey Warden may defeat it." He turned to Solona, "We can only hope that the armies give us the chance we need."

Eamon made to depart. "I will give the ordered at once. I will notify you as soon as the armies are ready. I suggest you all get some rest," he said, before making his way down to the battlements.

Riordan placed a hand upon Solona's shoulder. He looked almost embarrassed – ashamed even. "If you and Alistair would have a word with me, we have Grey Warden business to discuss,"

Solona breathed her agreement with a faint sigh. It seemed more bad news was inevitable.

* * *

Solona walked quietly down a hall of Arl Eamon's castle. More secrets - another Harrowing awaited. She approached Riordan's chambers to find Alistair waiting outside. She could not even look at him.

"I..." he began. "Let's just see what Riordan has to say," he gasped finally.

Solona could only nod, and followed him into the room.

"Ah good. You're both here," Riordan said as he rose from his desk. He clenched his jaw for a moment, uncertain of how to continue. "You are both new to the Grey Wardens," he began. "You may not know how an archdemon is slain."

Solona's stomach rolled into an awful mass; this did not bode well.

Alistair looked puzzled. "So, there's more to it than just chopping off its head, say?"

Riordan shook his head. "So you do not know. I had just assumed that Duncan..." he paused to rub his forehead, searching for the right words to explain. "Tell me, have you ever wondered why the Grey Wardens are needed to defeat the Darkspawn?" he asked.

Anger was beginning to well up within Solona once more. She was ill with secrets. Why would Riordan not get to the blasted point? "I assume it has something to do with the taint in us?" she muttered.

"That is exactly what it involves." Riordan answered. "The archdemon can be slain, just as any other Darkspawn. But, if it is slain by anyone but a Grey Warden, its essence travels along the Taint, and into the nearest Darkspawn – making it functionally immortal. But, if it is slain by Grey Warden, its essence travels into the Grey Warden instead."

This was it, the next awful secret for Solona to face. "And... what happens to the Grey Warden?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"A Darkspawn is an empty, soulless vessel – a Grey Warden is not. The essence and the Grey Warden are destroyed," Riordan explained.

Thick, suffocating silence filled the room.

"Meaning the Grey Warden that slays the archdemon dies?" Alistair breathed.

Riordan would only nod.

And the fury was lit within Solona. They both had had a chance to stop Loghain's death. Why hadn't Riordan pulled them aside and insisted they spare the Teyrn? He _knew_ Solona had been a Warden for barely a day before Duncan died. And Alistair! Why did he not listen to reason? Why did he demand that Loghain be executed before hearing the facts? … Why did he have to take the crown?

Solona shook herself. Now was not the time for such thoughts. "Why is this such a secret? Why doesn't everyone know this?" Solona demanded.

"We keep it a secret for the same reason we keep the Joining a secret. Who would join knowing they risk such an end?" the Orlesian Warden explained. He sighed, "And yet, there _must_ be Grey Wardens. Without us, there is no hope."

It was an awful excuse, but Solona held her tongue. Knights, mercenaries, templars and more volunteered for such battles every day. Some would happily die for the sake of honour. Sacrificing a single Grey Warden every half-millennia was hardly a sacrifice at all.

Silence reigned once more. Solona's mind reeled, searching for an answer. There were only three of them. Alistair would be king. Riordan would be needed to lead the new Wardens of Ferelden. That left only her. Her eyes fell closed as the truth became evident. It was best this way. If she survived the Blight, only stone towers awaited her – whether it was Weisshaupt, Soldier's Peak or the Circle, it mattered little.

"Then I will take the final blow myself," Solona said as she cast her gaze downwards.

"No! Absolutely not!" Alistair shouted. He took a sharp step forward, positioning himself between Riordan and Solona. "I forbid it."

Solona shouldered past him. "You are neither my King, nor my Commander," she spat at him. "You have no say in it."

"Burning Andraste I don't!" Alistair exclaimed. He turned to Riordan. "I'm the senior Ferelden Warden. It's my duty to be the one."

Solona scoffed. "You already know where you can shove your duty," she snapped.

Riordan gave the pair a sad smile; it was both tragic and beautiful to see young lovers fighting over who would save whom. "It warms my heart to see such courage," he said. "But do not rush towards your death. The deed should fall to me. I am eldest, and my body will not stand the Taint much longer. But, should I fail, it will fall to you." He took a deep breath before continuing, "But enough of this. We should get some rest."

Alistair nodded in temporary accord. "Yes. So this ends soon... one way or another."

"That it does my friend. That it does."

* * *

As they left Riordan's chambers, Alistair turned to Solona.

"Look, Solona..." he began.

She pushed past him before he could continue. "Go be king, Alistair," she snapped. With that, she trod into her chambers, and slammed the door behind her. In an afterthought, she bolted it; if Alistair followed her, she would fall to pieces all over again.

The heat of the room surrounded Solona in a suffocating burst. She looked up, and promptly flew back against the locked doors; a dark figure was outlined in the rolling flames of the hearth.

"Do not be alarmed," sighed Morrigan, stepping out of the flame's glow. "'Tis only I...".

A relieved gasp rushed forth from Solona's lips. She peeled herself from the heavy doors and made her way to across the room to collapse into her bed. With a blind hand, Solona reached over to a side table to retrieve a tiny blue bottle. She drank its contents and tossed the bottle careless aside. After a moment, she sat up and shot Morrigan a quizzical eyebrow. "Don't you have your own bedroom?" she asked.

The witch wandered across the chamber to where a meager bookcase awaited; her normally graceful gate was stiff and uneven. She thumbed over the dusty spines before turning to regard Solona. "I decided it was time that we spoke," she announced. Morrigan turned to lean up against the shelves. "I have a plan," she breathed. "A way out. A loop for your hole."

Solona sighed. _Wonderful_, she thought, _more schemes_...

Morrigan approached the bed. "I know that a Grey Warden must be sacrificed for the archdemon to die. And this sacrifice could be you," she said, punctuating her words by placing a gentle hand upon Solona's shoulder. She gave the Warden an appraising look, "This does not need to be..."

The bed creaked as Solona shot upwards. "How do you know this?" she demanded. "And why the bloody hell did you never think to mention this before, oh say, we killed Loghain?!"

Morrigan ran the tip of her finger along Solona's jaw. "I know a great many things. _How_ I know is not so important as _what_ I know." She moved closer to whisper into Solona's ear. "I offer a way out for all Grey Wardens. A ritual. Performed in the dark of night. On the eve of battle."

Solona leaned back from the uncomfortable closeness. Morrigan was being … strange. "Nothing comes without a price," she answered.

A serpentine smile travelled along Morrigan's lips. "Perhaps that price need not be so unbearable, especially if there is much to gain. All that I ask is that you listen to what I have to say. Nothing more," she promised.

What else was there to lose? Solona carefully rose from the bed, and began to pace back and forth before the scorching hearth. She had already lost her only love, and she would not likely live to see the next moon. She sighed. "Very well," she conceded. "What is your plan?"

Morrigan sat upon the edge of the now deserted bed. She spread her arms open and cocked her neck slightly to the side. Solona watched her carefully; it seemed as though Morrigan had become uncomfortable within her own skin.

"What I propose is this," began Morrigan, "Convince Alistair to lay with me here tonight. From this ritual a child will be conceived. When the archdemon is slain, its essence will seek the child like a beacon. At this early stage the child can absorb that essence and not perish. The archdemon is still destroyed, with no Grey Wardens dying in the process."

Solona's jaw fell as bile threatened to rise up into her throat. She wanted to laugh – surely Morrigan must be jesting. It was hardly a secret that Alistair would sooner lay with Oghren than with Morrigan. Solona stared hard into Morrigan's eyes. There was no mirth to be found. The witch was serious.

Still not truly believing the request, Solona asked, "So the child becomes a Darkspawn?"

Morrigan rose and made her way to where Solona stood. She ran a soft hand over Solona's hair like a mother comforting her child. "Not at all," she cooed. "It will become something different: a child born with the soul of an Old God." Her tone suddenly became sharp. "After this is done, you allow me to walk away, and you do not follow. _Ever_. The child will be mine to raise as I wish."

Solona choked at the news, "You actually think Alistair would agree to this?"

Morrigan raised an eyebrow. "If you care for him as you seem to? Consider the alternatives. Alistair will not fail to do his duty as king. He _will_ die. Or, you will die and he will lose the woman he loves. I think you have many good reasons to tell him to save his own life. I think you should consider this carefully."

Taking a couple precautionary steps back, Solona shivered as her back made contact against a stone wall. If she asked him, she was unsure whether Alistair would agree to the ritual. He had rejected her, but when faced with the certainty of one of their deaths perhaps he would relent. Yet, that was only a very small portion of the problem. Solona considered Morrigan a friend, but could she trust her with a child? Perhaps. Could she trust her with an Old God? The answer was obvious. "No," Solona answered. "I won't agree to this."

Morrigan followed Solona to stand so they almost touched. Her breath was ragged against Solona's cheek. "Do not let your foolish pride condemn you," the witch warned. "No Grey Warden asked for the sacrifice that is now demanded of them, and I offer all of you a way out. Will you not reconsider?"

A small piece of Solona's heart burned to accept; Mages feared the Maker like no other. She silenced it with painful a dismissal. "I will not reconsider," Solona stood firm. "The answer is no."

Morrigan was furious. "Then you are a fool! I will not standby and let you waste this opportunity. Die if you feel it is worthwhile. Or be overshadowed. I care not," she spat and marched towards the door.

Solona strode after her and called "Please, don't do this Morrigan. She placed a firm hand upon the door, barring its opening. "Don't go. I need you here," Solona begged. "I can't do this with out you. Please stay. As my friend, please stay."

A sigh fell from Morrigan's lips. "Would that I could have helped you," she frowned. "But this is your own doing." She pushed Solona's barring hand aside and pulled open the old oak doors.

"Farewell, my friend," were the last words Morrigan whispered before disappearing into the night.

Solona fell upon the bed and tucked her knees up against her chest. She was losing more pieces of herself. A soft footstep echoed through the room, forcing Solona's attention to a dark corner. Leliana stepped out of the shadows. Solona let her head fall back against the bed; how Leliana could hide herself in plain sight she would never know.

"How long have you been there?" Solona asked.

Leliana strode towards the bed. "Oh, _mon petit chou_…" she began. Long enough, obviously.

The bard climbed onto the mattress next to Solona, and took her hand.

"I'm going to die," Solona whispered. "I thought thirty years was too short, but now I may not last the week."

"Shh, do not talk like that," Leliana soothed. "Riordan will succeed and you will live a long and happy life."

"In a tower," breathed Solona, as tears began to fall from her eyes.

Leliana frowned. Her bow was useless against sorrow. With no other weapons at her disposal, she wrapped her arms about Solona and hummed a quiet tune until they both floated down into sleep's embrace.

* * *

**A/N:** _Righto, next chapter is the Final Battle. Should be up in a couple days. And then FINALLY something new. It really is coming. I promise._

_Thanks to those that take the time to Review. _


	5. Chapter 4: The Tempest

**Chapter 4: The Tempest**

**A/N: **_Super duper promise that this is the end of the game stuff. Next chapter is something new._

_

* * *

_They saw the fires long before they saw the city. Black plumes seeped over the plains and slithered through the mountain passes across Ferelden, raining ash and heralding ruination. When the armies finally reached Highever, fleeing villagers only confirmed their hopelessness: they were too late. Much, much too late. Denerim was already in ruins.

Morale was low – almost nonexistent – among the troops. The Blight had already won: the capital was lost. Why should they march to their dooms when Ferelden had fallen? Why not wait for the Orlesians or Anders to arrive? Why not make their escape while there was still a chance?

It was the Wardens that pushed the armies onward; waiting would only lead to the deaths of more innocents. The darker reasons of urgency – human harvests and Broodmothers – the Wardens kept to themselves. The generals of all of the races of Ferelden were bound by ancient contract to follow the Grey Wardens when called. And so they marched to ruin.

Alistair and Riordan made great shows of courage. Together they pushed the armies onward with promises of victory and triumph. Yet, the soldiers could not help but notice the third Warden – a mere ghost of a mage floating among them.

Solona was empty. Denerim was lost. Jowan was lost. Her sister was lost. Her lover was lost. How or why she still marched, she did not know. She had spoken barely a word since Red Cliff; she ate little, but drank much.

"It is weak," Shale commented finally, on their last day of travel.

Solona did not answer. It was too obvious to waste her laboured breaths. Yes, she was weak.

"It is weak," tried Shale again. "It will break before Denerim."

There was nothing to say. She was already broken.

The golem stopped its shuddering tracks, and blocked Solona's way. She turned to look up at Shale with tired eyes questioning.

"I will carry It," Shale announced. "I will carry you," she amended.

Solona's head tipped downwards. Shale's offer was a most startling kindness. "I will be okay," she rasped, words like sand in her throat. "I will manage. Thank you, though. It means a lot to me."

A sturdy smack came to the back of Solona's leg, causing her to teeter unsteadily for a moment. Oghren appeared before her. "Get on the sodding rock," he ordered.

Solona only shook her head and continued onwards. Another thump came to her thigh. "Don't make me break yer legs, girly," the dwarf warned.

Solona gave a faint groan and bent to whisper in Oghren's ear. "For one," she hissed, "a broken leg is hardly an issue for magic. And for two, how does it look when the 'Fearless Grey Warden' has to be carried into battle like a child?" she asked. After delivering a hard glare, she spun away and marched double-time up the highway.

A few paces on, an arm came to rest gently around Solona's waist, as Zevran appeared silently beside her. "An unknowning present from Wynne," he explained, handing her a bottle of lyrium.

Solona nodded gratefully, and made to undo the stopper. With her attention diverted, her foot stumbled into a dip in the road. Both she and the bottle fell. And stopped. Zevran shot forward with his feline reflexes and caught both Solona and her potion. He steadied the mage once more upon her feet, and passed her back the bottle. "Do not worry," he breathed. "I have you. We will make it to Denerim together."

Solona whispered soft thanks to him as Zevran laced an arm around her back once more.

Far behind them, Alistair Theirin, future king of Ferelden, tried very hard not to notice.

* * *

It was near midnight when the armies came to a shuttering halt at the final cresting hill before Denerim. It was much worse than they could have imagined. The city was overrun.

The Wardens pushed their way to the front of the crowd. For a moment they were lost in awe of it. Orange flames licked over the ruins of city. Awful, inhuman sounds were punctuated by the periodic scream. A few of the city's remaining guards were now trying to fight their way out; they would not make it. It was a madmen's vision of hell.

The front line began to falter, taking unsteady steps backwards. The rear guard remained beyond the hill crest, not seeing the firestorm that consumed the city; they pushed forwards. The result was a screech of metal and shouts of panic, as the armies massed into a strangling ball. They would trample themselves within minutes.

Solona turned towards Alistair. His jaw hung loose; his eyes were wide. He looked like a frightened child. She placed a gentle hand upon his cheek, forgiving him for that single moment for all of the pain he had caused her. Now was the time for leadership, and she hadn't the strength to do it.

"Go be king," she breathed.

Alistair blinked and wrenched his gaze away from the blaze. He nodded down to Solona, blindly gluing the pieces of his hope together again. Yes, he wouldbe king.

Solona watched as Alistair spun about for a moment, searching for a stage. Instead, he found the steps of an old windmill; it would do.

With more jaunt than any would have thought possible, Alistair leapt up the steps and looked down upon the frightened armies. Men, Mages, Dwarves and Elves. They had left the security of their homes to fight at the Wardens' call.

"Listen to me," he ordered, a king once more. The soldiers turned silent. Alistair was magnificent. He stood tall and proud despite the long march. His armor gleamed in the smoky night. _This_ was the leader the armies had been waiting for.

"Before us stands the might of the darkspawn horde," Alistair shouted. "But we need not fear it, for with us stands this Grey Warden." He gestured towards to Solona and the gaze of the armies followed him.

Solona tried not to grimace as Alistair directed all attention towards her. She was a wreck – hardly a solid source of inspiration. This was Alistair's responsibility. Hers was just to burn things.

"She is proof that Glory is within reach of us all," Alistair continued. "She has survived against all odds. Without her none of us would be here."

A red flush crept up Solona's neck. How do you look triumphant when you are wretched?

"She will lead us to victory," Alistair promised. "Together we will destroy this Blight! We will show the Grey Wardens that we remember and honour their sacrifice."

A great cheer came up from the soldiers. Even Solona felt some of her weariness evaporate away. Inspiration was a powerful weapon.

Alistair thrust his sword towards the burning skies. "For Ferelden! For the Grey Wardens!"

The armies echoed his fervor with their own roar of valor, and as one, they began to race down the hill and into the city. Riordan sped on at the head of the charge.

Alistair jumped down from the mill's steps, landing next to Solona. "Stay close," he ordered.

She nodded and followed him into the nightmare.

* * *

By the time the Wardens reached the city walls, the first line had already broken through the gates. They followed them through into the fray.

Solona spun about. There were darkspawn, soldiers, and blood everywhere. She was not used to such massive battles. Her first instinct at seeing hundreds of darkspawn swarming about was to let loose every mass Primal spell she knew. She could stack layers of tempests and blizzards upon one another, and burn the rest. Solona banished the thought. There were too many soldiers among them.

Solona focused on small localized spells: charms of frost, fire and lighting. They worked well, but too soon she was exhausted. Her hand dove into her pocket, seeking one of her few remaining lyrium potions. She had wanted to save them for the archdemon, but at this rate they would not make it through the city without it. She drank the bottle's contents and sighed at the strength it returned to her.

Just as she ran back to Alistair's side, a knight of Red Cliff was thrown against Solona, sending her tumbling through the blood flecked dirt. When at last she settled, instinct forced her to the fight the urge to rest for a moment. Her fall had drawn the attention of a mass of darkspawn; sprawled across the ground, she was an easy target.

A dozen or so darkspawn lurched towards Solona, twisted grins surfaced on grizzled teeth. There wasn't time to waste in standing; Solona let forth a shockwave that sent the beasts tumbling backwards. She pulled madly at the Veil as she cast every spell to immobilization she could recall. Arcane prisons shimmered as they closed around the darkspawn. Stone fists rose from the earth to grasp at the creatures' feet. Finally, fire consumed them all.

Solona breathed a sigh of relief as she rolled away from her attackers; none would survive. Gracelessly, she stumbled to her feet and prepared to return to Alistair's side. Solona scanned the square. Alistair was gone. Everyone was gone. Her companions had pushed on without her.

With wild panic, the mage scrambled through dark alleys and in and out of open courts. The fires had entirely changed the landscape. She was lost in the streets she walked only a week ago. She swore at her own incompetence – how did you lose an entire army in mere moments?

Solona rounded another corner, bursting into yet another of the city's squares. And into a swarm of darkspawn. She skittered to a halt, too loud and too late. The beasts spotted her. Their alpha gave a ragged shriek as sixty or so darkspawn charged towards her. Solona frowned: it seemed rather unnecessary.

Tired and disoriented, Solona could not outrun them; she would have to hold off the darkspawn as best she could. She shot small, fast-casting spells as they approached, taking blind steps backwards with each. When her back thumped against a wall, panic overtook Solona once more. She drew her sword, but it would be little use. A hundred darkspawn would be no match for her Primal magic, but she would not have the time to conjure such a large spell. The horde was almost upon her.

A mighty roar pierced the darkspawns' snarls. Solona risked a glance sideways, only to see a mass of darkspawn go flying across her field of view. It was Alistair.

The knight drove his way through the far edge of the horde. Darkspawn were sent tumbling backwards as Alistair thrust his way to Solona. When at last he reached her, Alistair shoved Solona behind him and took over as her guard.

He was magnificent. Solona had never witnessed such strength in a single man.

"Cast something already!" Alistair shouted as his blade and shield flashed through the air, deflecting the blows that would have ended her.

Solona swallowed and remembered herself. With shaking fingers, she conjured a blizzard atop the darkspawn swarm. Within seconds, they were caked in ice and unable to move. Solona took in another gasp of air. With no other humans in the square save herself and Alistair, her next spell would be … somewhat safe.

Solona closed her eyes, trusting Alistair to protect her. With a soft hum she whispered against the Veil, asking the Fade for a dark, dark spell. It was slow to cast, but she had time now. Black, sooty clouds began to form at the feet of the darkspawn. Their armor hissed as it too turned black. The cloud grew higher, seeping into the mail and corroding their flesh. By the time the dark mist swirled over their heads, it was too late; the darkspawn were dead.

Solona pulled Alistair back a few cautionary steps. The mist would hold its position for a few more seconds, and then disperse harmlessly away, leaving only dark puddles in its wake. The Circle mages called it a Cloud of Death. It was an understatement.

"Right," breathed Alistair, turning away from the cloud. "Let's go," he ordered, grabbing Solona's hand.

Solona was drug jogging after Alistair as he led her through a maze of ruins. When at last she was quite certain he was lost, they turned a final corner and entered a clearing where the armies had gathered. The troops milled about, waiting for the Wardens' next command.

Riordan ran over to Solona, "We must make our way to a high point in the city," he said. "I suggest you take Alistair and at most two others and head to Fort Draken. The rest must stay here and hold the gates."

Solona blinked. "You're not coming with us?" she questioned.

"No," he explained. "If we are together, the archdemon will sense our presence. I must go alone." He paused for a moment, as if searching the ether. "I can sense two darkspawn generals within the city. One is in the Market District; the other is in the Alienage. You must stop them before the archdemon calls them to its aid. Be careful," Riordan warned, "there is word that there are still elves trapped in the Alienage." With that, the Warden sped off into the ruins.

Solona turned to her companions. They were silent, waiting for her command. Who did you ask to follow you into the beast's lair? Who did you ask to remain? "Oghren and Zevran," she decided finally, "I need you to come with Alistair and me." She scanned her comrades, "the rest of you need to stay here and defend the gate."

A murmur of disapproval came from the Warden's party.

Alistair scowled. "It would be better if you stayed here, and I went--"

Solona cut him off. "Don't start," she warned.

Leliana stepped forward and placed her hands upon Solona's shoulders. "Surely a bow would be most useful against a dragon, _non_?" she asked.

"I need you to scout above the walls here," Solona answered. What she did not say was that she needed Leliana to be somewhere she could escape – somewhere she could hide. She would not let her friend become a Broodmother.

Leliana placed a kiss upon each of Solona's cheeks, before pulling her into a tight embrace. "Be careful, _ma chère_," she whispered. "When this is done, we will walk the Maker's earth together. No towers for you, I promise." She released her friend and stepped back among their companions.

With a sigh, Wynne step forward and handed Solona her satchel. Confused, Solona peered inside; it was stuffed full with lyrium potions. "Thanks," she whispered, as she positioned the bag over her shoulder.

Wynne only nodded. "Just don't binge drink them all as soon as you're out of sight."

Next it was Shale to speak. "Leaving the statue to guard the gate?" she asked. "It is _most _original…"

Solona shrugged. "There will be lots of things to crush, at least."

As much is possible for stone, Shale's expression softened. "It will be careful, or I will be most upset."

"This is foolishness," Sten admonished finally. "I am the most trained in combat; I should go."

Solona approached the giant Qunari, and tried her best to meet his glare. "I need you here, Sten. I need you to lead them. No one else can," she reasoned. "If this gate falls, we'll be overrun before we even reach the archdemon. Please."

Sten considered her words for a moment before conceding. "Very well," he answered simply.

"Thank you," Solona replied. She looked to all of her companions that would remain. "Thank you," she addressed them all.

Before she lost her will, Solona turned to Alistair. "Let's go," she ordered.

As they turned to make their way further into the city, Daro trotted up next to Solona. She sighed and knelt down to embrace her mabari. "I need you to stay here," she explained.

Daro whined and pawed at her shoulder.

"You have to look after Wynne for me," Solona tried.

The mabari growled. The bath-mage and he were not the best of friends.

"And Leliana too," Solona amended.

Daro considered this for a moment before nodding. Yes, the belly-rub bard would be worth protecting. He gave a soft lick to Solona's cheek, asking one last time to come along.

She shook her head, and pulled him tighter into her embrace. "I'll be back soon," she whispered. It was a lie.

Daro replied with a happy bark. He cantered back to Leliana's side, stopping only to issue a farewell woof. Solona forced a smile back to her hound before continuing on.

"Three dragons in three months? You've done well on me, Warden," remarked Oghren. "In Orzammar you could barely skewer a nug without some sodding Shaper pissing on your parade."

"What's this?" asked Zevran. "Oh yes, big smelly beasts abound." He wrinkled his nose at Oghren, "And dragons too…"

The party barely made it into the alleys before Alistair stopped them. He glanced hesitantly from Solona to Oghren and Zevran.

Solona understood his silent question. "Yes," she agreed. "They should know."

With a pained sigh, Alistair ran his strained fingers through his hair. "Look," he said to the pair, "there are some things you need to know about the archdemon…"

* * *

The Wardens sent the Dalish and the dwarves to the Alienage. For all of their bravery, humans might not… understand the importance of saving those trapped within.

They themselves ventured on to the Market District. The ruins were barely recognizable; the only buildings still standing were the Chantry and Arl Eamon's estate. The party treaded past Goldanna's home. It too had collapsed into smoldering ruins.

Alistair stopped to prod the rubble with an armored toe. His sister had hardly welcomed him with open arms, but no one deserved such a fate. He had promised to use his influence to see that her children were properly cared for. It was a promised that he had had already broken.

Solona swallowed. "I'm sure they fled before the darkspawn even arrived," she lied.

Alistair nodded. There wasn't time to dwell on it now. They moved on.

The party weaved their way through the ruins of the Market. There was no sign of the darkspawn General. Alistair paused to rub his forehead.

"Can you sense it?" asked Solona.

"There's too many darkspawn in the city – I can't sense anything clearly," he admitted.

A rumble beneath their feet interrupted Alistair. The Wardens looked up as four ogres burst from the crumbling ruins of the Gnawed Noble. The beasts tilted their heads and charged at the pair. They made only a few steps before Alistair gently pushed Solona behind him.

Solona sighed and cast a charm of sleep. The monsters collapsed instantly, momentum dragging their limp forms forward a few yards.

Another figure appeared from within the tavern ruins. The party watched as the Hurlock lumbered out the debris. It was clad in menacing spiked armor. Dark banners hung from its back. Its purpose was clear: this was the darkspawn General.

With an utter lack of ceremony, Solona cast another charm of sleep. The General shook it off with a growl. Rubbing her tired forehead, the mage conjured a prison of ice around the creature's body; it held perfectly. The beast thrashed about in its bonds to no avail.

Zevran tapped at his chin. "You think they would learn: big hordes at close range only with mages," he said before drawing his blades and sauntering off. He and Oghren went about the bloody business of decapitating the sleeping ogres. It was only a little macabre to watch the elf leaping from body to body and merrily slitting throats.

It was Alistair's task to execute the General. He marched solemnly to the frozen Hurlock. Its black eyes twitched as it hissed at the Warden. Alistair lifted his sword. "May the Maker forgive you," he breathed, and thrust.

The creature's head rolled dully away, as its body remained frozen upright.

Zevran appeared silently at Solona's side. He took the lyrium bottle from her hands and uncorked it for her. "That was a bit, anticlimactic, no?"

Solona only shrugged as she drank her cure.

A few moments later, Alistair and Oghren rejoined the pair.

"It's hardly over," Alistair warned. "Any minute, the arch-"

An awful, piecing screech reigned down from above. The party turned upwards to witness the end. The archdemon flew in careless circles above the city. It had come for them.

Solona squinted to see a small fleck leap from Fort Draken onto the dragon's back. She gasped. It was Riordan.

The dragon tossed him about like a rag puppet. Solona watched in horror as the small speck of a man tried to climb the monster's back. _Kill it,_ she begged. _Maker give him the strength to kill it._

But the Maker did not hear her. The archdemon gave one final shriek and twisted with enough force to send Riordan flying. The Warden managed to sink his blades into the beast's wings, but it was not enough. They shredded under his weight, and the Warden tumbled to his death.

Solona turned away. Although Riordan must have landed miles away, in her mind she could still hear the sickening crunch as he hit ground. She curled over and vomited into the streets. When at last her stomach was empty, she remained bent over, gasping for air.

A soothing hand rubbed her back. "We have to get to Fort Draken fast," Alistair said with a gentle tone. The knight sighed. "I want you to go back to the gates. Out of Denerim, even," he tried. "Please. Take Zevran and go," he begged.

Solona gave a few deep, shuttering breaths before righting herself. With unconscious hands, she sought a bottle of lyrium and drank it back. When at last she calmed, she looked deeply into Alistair's worried expression. The kingly mask was gone. He was just her nervous knight, once more. She shook her head; she would go with them to the tower. "Let's go," she ordered, and headed towards the Market's exit.

Alistair swallowed his defeat and followed. Yet, he froze as they reached the front of the Chantry. It was deserted, but surprising intact compared to the other lodgings.

"Move it," Oghren ordered, giving him a slight shove.

"I remember," began Alistair, "there's a rumour that tunnels run from the Chantry to Fort Draken. Maybe if we could find them, we could skip under all the darkspawn."

Solona nodded, it was worth a try. It would take them hours - if not days - to fight their way through the infested city.

With an artful bounce, Zevran scurried to the Chantry doors. The lock was no match for his skill, but the doors remained barred from the inside. He gave them an experimental kick to no avail. With a cautious eye, the elf turned to Solona. "Should I…?" he asked.

Solona waved him on. Nothing he could do would alter the Chantry's view of her.

It was Alistair that screamed in opposition as Zevran threw a rock into the stain glass window. "Stop that!" he bellowed. "You can't just throw bloody rocks at the Chantry."

Zevran shrugged. "You would rather the darkspawn do it?" he asked, as he cleared away the remaining glass.

It was no use; the elf had already hopped through the window and unbarred the door. With a great flourish, Zevran propped the doors open and bowed low as Solona entered. "My lady…" he intoned.

Alistair clenched his teeth and followed.

The Chantry was eerily quiet as they barred the door behind them. The inner sanctum was completely undisturbed by the chaos outside. The party walked carefully, ever vigilant of ambush. None came. The Chantry was empty.

Alistair broke off from the party. He called to his companions, "The basement is this way, if I recall," he said, and trotted off into the dark threshold.

The lower level of the Chantry was a cryptic as one would hope. The stairwell emptied into a dark circular chamber. Shadowed passageways branched off in every direction. A plethora of dusty statues rimmed the walls. The eyes of Andraste, templars and demons alike glared down at the Wardens. For all the fires that burned above, the room remained cold and forbidding. They were not welcome here.

Oghren sniffed at the stale air. "Smells like home: dirt and dread," he scowled.

Alistair turned to Solona. "There are five doors… I guess we just pick one?"

Solona shrugged, and gestured to one at random. Zevran had the lock picked in mere seconds. With much ceremony, he opened the door to reveal a massive crypt within. A foul air wafted out.

"Oh," frowned Alistair. "The Templars' crypt. Try another."

Zevran's efforts revealed two basic storage rooms. The fourth door opened into a long dark passageway. Solona conjured a pair of lightening orbs to traverse its length. The tunnel went on indefinitely.

"This must be it," Alistair observed. He turned back to see Zevran picking the lock of the final door. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

"I was curious, and I figured, I'm being so very helpful, why not finish the job?" Zevran shrugged.

Before Alistair could further object, Zevran kicked open the last door. A strange fog floated out from within. Solona furled her brow. This was … familiar. The companions peeked inside: it was the Denerim phylactery holding. The blood of every living Circle mage was held in small vials here. They sat in rows upon dusty wooden shelves. For shackles, they looked harmless enough.

Solona swallowed a choke. Somewhere in this vault was her own phylactery. Her freedom was within reach. She frowned, now was not the time to be selfish. She turned to Zevran. "Give me a grease trap," she ordered.

He cocked an eyebrow, but reached into his satchel anyways. "Perhaps this is not the best place to set a trap, my dear?" he suggested.

She ignored him, and carefully took the jar of oil from his hands, leaving the triggers behind. She weighed it for a moment, and examined the room beyond the threshold. No, it would not be enough. "Another," was all she commanded.

Zevran sighed and produced another jar.

Solona nodded, contented now. With all her might, she threw one jar and then another deep into holding chamber. The glass shattered with a musical twinkle, while the oil splattered everywhere. Solona took a deep breath. Something good would come out of this Blight. She cast a sustained inferno within the centre of the room, and then slammed the door shut. Within a few moments, the clinking sounds of bursting glass filtered through.

"Andraste's flaming sword, what are you doing?" shouted Alistair.

Solona turned away and marched into the dark hall. "We're fighting for _everyone's _freedom," she muttered.

Alistair's grabbed her shoulder and spun Solona around. "What? Are actually going to burn down a Chantry? Bloody Andraste, Solona, the Maker will smite you where you stand!" he bellowed.

"The Maker doesn't care," Solona argued. "He didn't care when Duncan died. He didn't care when Riordan died. He won't care when we die. And he bloody well won't care if this pile of shit burns."

Alistair was furious. He lifted his hand as if to strike Solona. She glared at him and dared him to continue. The knight clenched his teeth before dropping his hand once more. Alistair turned about and marched onwards.

The party followed in silence.

* * *

The passage did indeed lead into Fort Draken. The Wardens found the fortress to be deserted, and immediately began the long journey to the top of its tower.

They had almost reached the final flight of stairs when a scream echoed down through the tower. Alistair and Solona fell to their knees, gasping.

Zevran rushed to Solona's side and wrapped a steadying arm about her. "What is wrong?" he demanded.

Solona shook her head, still struggling for air, "I don't know," she wheezed.

Next to them, Alistair rose to his feet. "It's the archdemon," he rasped. "It can feel us coming. It's calling for aid." He reached down and pulled Solona roughly to her feet. "We need to hurry," Alistair demanded, and began running up the remaining steps two at a time.

Solona groaned; she had barely made it this far.

"Don't look at me," Oghren warned. "I'm not carrying you."

Solona shook her head, "Yes, I was obviously asking for a ride…"

The dwarf growled, "Oh fine, ya moss-licker. Hop on."

The Warden ignored him and forced herself to follow Alistair as best she could. As they reached the final steps before the tower's top, he stopped her. "I need you to stay back," he said.

Solona sent him a questioning expression.

"I need you to keep back out of the fight. I can't do what I need to do if I have to worry about you getting crushed playing soldier," he continued.

His words tasted of Ostagar. Solona scowled. There was not time to argue. "Fine," she said.

Alistair took in a deep breath before continuing. "And I need you to let me take the final blow." He silenced her before she could reply. "I'm king, Solona, or as good as king, anyways. For all the good and the bad that it entails. This is my job. It's my birthright. It's my duty to the country." He cupped her chin for a moment. "You – all mages – don't owe Ferelden anything."

Another screech reverberated through the tower. The archdemon called.

"Just promise," demanded Alistair.

Time was too short to fight. Solona relented with a nod.

"Good," replied Alistair, relieved. "Let's end this." He kicked opened the tower's final door and together the Wardens and their allies burst onto the platform.

A heavy wind met the tower on its north side, skittered uncertainly across the stones, and came to rest against the beast at the deck's centre. The archdemon was more terrifying than either of the Wardens could remember. They had seen it countless times in dreams and even once before in true life, yet now, only a few steps away, it was a different creature entirely. They could now see the rotted sinews that twisted over its jagged flesh. Dark blood oozed from the gashes Riordan had inflicted. They could see the very Taint upon it.

The archdemon welcomed them with another scream. They were close enough now that Solona could feel the creature's song echoing in her bones. She could feel its words. It recognized her as a Sister of the Taint. It offered her power in exchange for her loyalty. It offered Solona her every desire. It offered her a Thedas free of towers.

Solona rebuffed it and continued forward. The beast was alone for now; its minions had not yet arrived. This would be their best and only chance.

It was Oghren who charged first. The dwarf sped on short legs towards the beast, already harnessing his rage. He slashed wildly at the archdemon's limbs, missing most, but landing enough to further enrage the creature. The archdemon reared up upon its hind feet and struck at Oghren; he went flying across the parapets. The blow only stoked the flames of his fury. Oghren went charging back with a rumbling howl, "Nug Humper!!"

Alistair and Zevran joined the fray. The trio weaved around the beast, hacking at any surface they could reach. The archdemon tried to counter them with broad swipes of its claws and searing bursts of green flames. It was useless. The companions moved in synchrony, supporting and guarding the others' attacks.

Solona remained back, madly casting a wide array of spells. She fought to balance healing the gashes of her companions, with hexing the archdemon into confusion, and summoning bolts of Primal lightning.

Progress was slow, but progress was made. At last the archdemon realized that it was outmatched. It opened its wings and flailed wildly to gain lift with the shredded flesh. With unsteady bursts, it rose slowly into the air, and made to fly off the tower.

Oghren gave a roar of rage and shot straight up into the air. On his way down, he chopped down at the beast, severing a wing.

The archdemon crashed back down into the stones of the tower. The companions rushed forward to continue their onslaught, but then stumbled to a halt. A dark ring had formed around the edge of the tower. The darkspawn horde had climbed its way up the side of Fort Draken, and was flowing onto the tower's top.

As one, the trio moved warily to where Solona stood. Backs against each other, they prepared to shield her as she wove her magics.

Solona tore at the Veil summoning every mass spell she could think of. She spun around conjuring ice and fire and lightening and chaos. The tower shone crimson and azure from her efforts. Solona drank back countless potions to keep up her energy, but too soon she ran low. The supply of darkspawn seemed endless.

The front line of the darkspawn closed in upon the companions. The creatures crawled over the corpses of their brethren. The mage could only go on for so much longer.

When at last all seemed lost, a battle cry streamed out from the tower's stairwell. The Wardens turned to see the knights of Red Cliff pour onto the tower. They pushed back against the darkspawn line, sending the howling creatures toppling over the edge of the tower. The soldiers were joined by a dozen Circle mages who took up Solona's position of summoning storms.

Arl Eamon appeared at Alistair's side.

"Get the demon," he shouted. "We'll hold off the darkspawn."

The companions turned once more to the archdemon. It seemed to have regained some strength in its reprieve. Alistair, Zevran and Oghren returned to their task of subduing the beast.

Seeing his chance, Zevran leapt atop Oghren's shoulders and then sprung onto the back of the archdemon. The beast bucked wildly, but Zevran sank his blades deep into its shoulders and clung on. As the archdemon's head swung low, Alistair thrust his sword forward, piecing the creature's eye.

With a piercing shriek, the archdemon spun blindly around. Its tail swiped Alistair and sent him tumbling across the tower.

It was a sufficient distraction; Zevran finally found his goal. He dropped his dagger hastily aside and took his sword into both hands. With pinpoint accuracy he thrust the sword deep into the archdemon's back, severing its spine.

The beast gave a final scream as it collapsed. Its body twitched madly about, as it tried to stand. It was futile: the dragon was paralyzed from the neck down.

Its head lolled about in a growing pool of black blood. The archdemon was dying. A Warden had to strike soon. Solona drew _Spellweaver_ and faced the beast. She did not get far.

Alistair grabbed Solona's arm with bruising fingers. Carefully, he wretched _Spellweaver_ out of her hand, and tossed it carelessly across the tower. It skittered far across the stone surface, and disappeared over the edge of the tower. He released his hold and shook his head. "Did you really think I would let you break that promise?" he asked. He gave her one last sorrowful look, and then turned towards where the archdemon lay. With a deep, shuttering breath, he drew his sword, stepped forward, and froze. The telltale marks of a Glyph of Paralysis glowed beneath his feet.

Alistair fought against his bonds with all of his templar training. Solona appeared before him once more. "No," she said. It was useless. His will was strong, but her magic was stronger. She had been saving this spell since they had arrived at Denerim.

Solona raised a gentle hand to brush against Alistair's frozen cheek. "You were right," she whispered, tears building at the edges of her eyes. "We have a duty. We must do what is right for Ferelden," she breathed. "And tomorrow, Ferelden will need a king. So today, Ferelden needs this to be me." She placed her arms around his neck to pull herself into one final embrace.

"I love you," Solona confessed. "I will always, always love you." Cold tears ran down her cheeks as she pressed a last kiss upon his lips. "Be good," she whispered with a broken smile, as she pried Alistair's sword from his fingers.

With that, Solona wrenched herself away from her one and only love. She ran with clumsy steps to where the archdemon was subdued by her companions. It was an awful, wretched creature, defiled to the core by the Taint. It writhed about on the stone floor in agony. Solona looked at it with compassion; she would free them both.

Solona met the gaze of Oghren and Zevran. "Thank you," she said. They nodded with sad smiles. They both knew the cost of duty.

Slowly, Solona lifted Alistair's sword in both hands. It was heavier than she remembered. She let its tip fall once more. Tears flowed freely down her cheeks, as she looked back over her shoulder to Alistair. His eyes flickered madly about, begging her to stop. Begging her to free him. Begging her to _live_.

"Good bye," she whispered. With a final breath, she struck.

The light that followed blinded them all.

* * *

At the city's gates, the Wardens' companions fell to their knees at the force of the quake that followed the flash of lightening. Around them, the darkspawn let out a collective wail; their commander was dead. They dropped their battles and fled out of the city.

The soldiers of the Grey Warden's army cheered as they chased the creatures from Denerim. High above them, the dark clouds let loose a mist of rain. The city was purging itself. The Blight was over.

When the first of the companions made it to the top of Fort Draken, the sight that awaited them would not soon be forgotten. Countless darkspawn corpses littered the tower. Among them was the occasion knight of Red Cliff. The survivors drifted back and forth. Some helped the injured. Some just stared blindly at the fetid corpse of the archdemon, shocked that they still lived.

On the far edge of the tower, Zevran sat cross legged with his face hidden in his hands. Next to him, Oghren leaned against a turret, his flask already empty. They were soaked with tears and rain.

And in the centre of it all was Alistair. He clutched at the limp form of his lover and screamed up at the Maker, damning the god for forsaking him. He cursed Andraste, Duncan, Riordan, Cailan, Eamon, and anyone else he think to blame.

The Warden was dead.

* * *

**A/N: **_The end. _

_Just kidding! Much more to come... _

_Hopefully this chapter has a bit more substance than the last … got no love for Chap 3 . It was much too plodding; I'm sort of thinking that I should have just skipped it entirely… I may rewrite it later…_

_Thanks to Monkey-Chan, my Reader._

_Also, thanks to Starfrost, for submitting this story's companion piece (_Rain_), as a recommended fanfic on TV Tropes. I am really very flattered._

_Finally, thanks to all those that Read and Review.  
_


	6. Chapter 5: The Quiet

**Chapter 5: The Quiet**

The rain had peaked and waned from dense, piercing sheets into a cleansing shower by the time the last of the Grey Wardens' companions reached the top of Fort Draken's tower. With brittle bones screeching in protest, Wynne stumbled out to find her fellows standing silent just beyond the stairwell's entrance. She pushed between the silent figures of Shale and Sten, and into the tragedy that waited; Alistair knelt upon the tower's harsh stone, holding Solona's limp form in his arms.

"Solona," Wynne gasped and made to rush to the young mage's side.

Zevran stepped into Wynne's path and placed a gentle hand upon her shoulders. "She is gone," he said.

Wynne shook off the elf's grasp and moved to step around him.

Zevran blocked her movements once more. "No, Wynn ... when the Archdemon is slain, a Warden…" his voice hitched for a moment as he tried to shield his emotions. "A Warden dies," he finished simply. Zevran feigned a cough as he regained himself. "She is dead, Wynne. She is dead," he forced. "Just let Alistair be."

Wynne's gaze fell to where Alistair knelt. The knight still clutched his lover in his arms, gently rocking her lifeless form. His lips moved next to Solona's ears, whispering incoherent words of love, despair and regret.

Wynne nodded, as her own tears began to form; she would give Alistair this moment.

* * *

Solona Amell was dead. Of this, she was quite certain. She had cut down the Archdemon and felt its spirit flow through the Taint and into her. She had felt the fire ignite in her blood as her body was consumed in the battle for control. She had felt herself lose. She had felt herself drag the Archdemon down with her. She had felt herself die.

Before her death, the screams of the darkspawn and the winds of the tempest that enveloped her had rung deafening in Solona's ears. There had been the clangs of armor and the scrapes of steel. But now, all was silent.

Solona hazarded opening an eye. There was a grey sky and little else. She lay upon her back, the cold of the earth slowly seeping into her spine. From head to toe, every inch of Solona ached. She frowned. Wasn't death supposed to be free of pain? Slowly Solona managed to sit upright, all of her muscles moaning in protest. She glanced about, weighing how she would spend the rest of Time. This was the Fade, certainly. There was grey earth and grey sky, punctuated only by the occasional bit of grey foliage. And there she was, the Grey Warden, home at last.

Solona had always imagined that the Fade of the Dead was somehow different than the Fade of the Living she had visited several times before. Yet, this was hardly any different than the island where she had been Harrowed. Perhaps the Chantry had been right all along: those that loved and were loved by the Maker would return to his throne in death, and those that shunned him were cursed to wander the barren Fade for all Eternity. Apparently being a mage was shunning enough.

_Alistair_. Her mind came to him at last. _Alistair._ Her love – her only love. Solona would never see him again. Never hear his sweet words again. Never touch him. Never feel his love again. Her heart ached for him as the Fade grew colder about her. It had been her choice to slay the Archdemon. Solona cringed as she wished she had grabbed Alistair and ran out of the city as fast as her legs would carry her. She was a coward. There was no comfort in knowing that the result would have been the same regardless of her choice – Alistair would have slain the Archdemon, and they would have been separated anyways. And then, alone and imprisoned in some tower, Solona would have withered to her death shortly thereafter. This way, at least Alistair lived – at least Ferelden prospered. It had only been a few minutes since her death, but Solona missed him already; she missed all of her companions. An awful pain welled up in her chest, as Solona wondered if she would long for Alistair for all Eternity, or if someday, someway, the pain would fade.

Solona let her eyes flutter closed as she lay back one more. Did she deserve this fate? Perhaps. As a child, she had loved the Maker as the Chantry sisters and Templars had demanded. She had prayed to him every night, asking him to forgive her sin: her magic. As Solona had grown, she came to question the Chantry. Magic was good. Magic was beautiful. Magic was a gift from the Maker. Yet Andraste had condemned the Tevinter Magisters, and with it, all the mages of the Thedas. How many nights had Solona spent in the Circle's Chantry wondering why she should revere the woman who reviled her? And so, Solona had turned her back on Andraste's Chantry, and hence the Maker himself. So, the Chantry had been right all along. The Maker had no home for mages after they left the mortal realms.

Somewhere the Revered Mothers and Knight-Commanders of Ferelden were celebrating her death; one less Abomination now stalked the Thedas. Solona was too tired to fight it now. She longed for peaceful rest - oblivion - yet it seemed so far out of reach. The chill of the Fade weaved itself through her bones. She tried to will herself into endless sleep; it would not come. There was no comfort to be found here.

So… now what? Solona contemplated staying there forever. If she truly was unable to fall into an everlasting sleep, then how should she spend the wasteful hours of Eternity? She sat up and looked towards the horizon. In the distance was the Black City, supposedly viewable from all the Fade, and yet forever unreachable. The Chantry said that the Taint started there, as somehow the Tevinter Magisters breeched the spirit realms and set foot in the Maker's sanctuary: the Golden City. A thought rose to the surface of Solona's mind. Should she go there - to the Black City? Solona wanted to see it - feel what had condemned all of her kind. Maybe she should go find the Maker while she was at it, give the fool god a piece of her mind. Of course it was impossible, but with the rest of Time on her side, surely she would make _some_ progress. And if not, would it matter? A perilous journey would certainly distract her from some of the aching longing for Alistair that twisted in her heart.

And –

Solona choked for a moment. What happened if she died in the Fade? Obviously, she was already dead, but what would happen now if an army of demons tore into her flesh? When she had lived, the worst that she faced was awaking in her mortal body, back safely in Ferelden. But now, there was no mortal body awaiting her. Would she perhaps drift into some secondary Fade? The land of the Dead's dead? Or would she just remain torn in bloody pieces until the Maker rebuilt the Fade and the Thedas anew?

An eternity inside a demon's belly – the thought was too awful to bear; Solona shook the dismal prospect from her mind.

With a sigh, Solona stood up to survey about her - and jumped sideways with a start. Lying motionless upon the grey Fade earth was a faint entity. Had it been there the whole time? She could not tell. Solona stepped carefully forward to regard it. It was a spirit of some sort. A shapeless, massless creature - more trick of light than solid structure. It rippled in the Fade's haze, as if deciding upon a proper form.

It was sometimes hard to remember that not only demons roamed the Fade; there were also spirits and of course mortals like Solona herself. Most spirits chose to pass mortals unnoticed and uninterested, but there were those like Wynne's benevolent spirit that would offer aid to lost humans.

Solona leaned in closer. It certainly did not seem dangerous - more curious than frightening. She sighed, wishing she had a stick to prod it.

The haze began to collapse in upon itself. It slowly grew shape and organization, until at last it reached its final form. Solona stared wide-eyed as a tiny infant appeared before her. She stepped back once more, looking about for signs of foul-play. There were no other creatures about; Solona was alone, save for the tiny babe.

The child was new born – a few days at most. It was wrapped haphazardly in a white linen sheet. Cubby fists brushed against pink cheeks, as the infant regarded Solona with big, blue eyes. It seemed harmless – defenceless, more so.

Solona crouched down next to the cooing child, wondering how it came to be here. Perhaps it had been lost to the darkspawn horde… she stopped herself. It was too horrible to think about. Solona sighed. So this was it then? The Maker sent mages and babies to rot together? She could almost reconcile her own fate here, but leaving an innocent child to the wastes of the Fade stripped the Maker of all Divinity in her eyes.

The glaring question was, of course, what did she do with it? The chill in her bones told Solona that she should not – could not – stay here forever. But what of the child?

A frown curved its way across Solona's lips. She did not like children. It was really that simple. At the Tower, when a Senior Enchanter had decided to maintain the sick façade that the Circle Tower was more a school than a prison, Solona had been assigned a trio of Junior Apprentices to mentor. She had seen about 17 summers at the time, and they - wretched, unwashed mice – could not have been more than 8 years of age. Solona had hated the way they _needed_. They needed her help with every spell. They needed to be herded about like cattle. They needed a snack. They needed a nap. Eventually, Solona pawned her wards off onto Jowan, before they drove her mad and into an Abomination.

And yet this babe seemed so very different. It certainly needed more than any apprentice she had been saddled with, but for some reason, Solona felt that she was willing to give to this child. Perhaps it was its innocence or maybe even just the fear of an eternity alone that drove her.

Solona sighed as she reached a decision. With a careful spell, she summoned a tiny ring of embers midway up the skirt of her robes. The flames lasted barely a moment before extinguishing themselves, severing a foot or so of cloth from her garment. She gathered the fallen cloth and fastened it about her shoulders into a sling. Carefully, Solona lifted the infant and its blanket into her sling, and secured it there.

"You're lucky I died in my Circle robes, and not the Tevinter set," she muttered.

With that, Solona turned towards the Black City in the distant horizon. It was said that no unwelcome mortal could reach it from the Fade, but Solona was certain her magics were strong enough to guide her. She would reach the city and confront the Maker for his injustices. Or at very least, she would spend the rest of Eternity trying.

* * *

The rains had ceased, leaving only a cool breeze to chill the bones to the Warden's companions. Time itself had stalled. Around the tower, they slumped in silence. They could find no words nor actions to right the wrong before them. Except for one.

Daro skirted to and fro before Alistair's shaking form. The mabari whined and barked, trying to make the foolish human understand.

Alistair ignored him.

Daro whined and scrapped his paw against the tower's stones. With a short bark he paced about a small circle before tugging once more upon the hem of Solona's robes.

"She's dead!" Alistair screamed, kicking out at the hound. "Leave her alone."

The hound cowered for a brief second, before running off towards the silent crowd of companions. Daro barked at the sullen group, but none would pay him any heed. Finally, he slunk behind Wynne, and gave her a steady push with his head.

The old mage stumbled for a moment before regaining her defeated stance. Daro barked and nudged Wynne once more.

Wynne was not ready for this. It was all so _wrong_. Part of her cried out, protesting that this was all real. Perhaps if she just waited and closed her eyes the world would right itself, and ... Wynne shook herself; she was much, much too old to live in daydreams. "Yes," she nodded to the hound. "It's time."

With tired body and broken heart, Wynne strode towards the sobbing king. "Alistair?" she hesitated. "Alistair, my boy, we should ... " her words trailed off. Anything she said now would be hollow and heartless. She squeezed her tired eyes closed for a moment, blocking out all the anguish that radiated into her. No. This had to be done. "Alistair," Wynne sighed. "We have to go now."

The boy only shook his sandy hair and clutched tighter to Solona.

Wynne felt cruel for even trying. "Alistair," she said again, this time placing a gentle hand upon his shoulder, "It's time to let go."

When she received no response, Wynne knelt down in front of him, with Solona's silent form between them. The old mage felt the prickle of tears well up into her eyes once more. It wasn't fair. Solona was so young; she had so much potential. And now the poor girl was dead.

"Alistair," Wynne voice sounded hollow in her own ears. "I know it hurts, but..." she stopped. There was really nothing at all she could say. With hands that felt weighted with a thousand years of strain, Wynne reached out to run a gentle trail along Solona's brow.

Wynne gasped as she pulled back her hand. She blinked for a moment before regaining herself and placing her palm firmly over Solona's forehead. Her breath quickened as she fought to the find the words.

"She's still here," Wynne choked. "I can feel her, Alistair. She's still here."

The knight turned to Wynne with eyes wide and jaw hanging lose in disbelief. His hands leapt to Solona's throat, feeling, praying for any sign of a pulse.

"She's just barely hanging on. I think I can..." Wynne began, as a pale blue light began to glow around her hands. It travelled down across Solona's brow and into her chest, where it began to shine white and strong.

The commotion and light drew the Wardens' companions near; behind them crowded their remaining allies. Together they huddled over the Wardens with sort breathes and prayers upon their lips.

The light upon Solona's chest grew stronger by the moment, until when at last it was too bright to watch, a faint thump against Alistair's fingers caused him to cry out in hope and relief and panic: a pulse, where there was none just a moment before.

"Heal her! Wake her up!" he demanded, irrational and shouting at the old woman before him.

Wynne shook her head as more grey locks fell free, "She's too weak. We need to get her inside." As she moved to stand, exhaustion flooded the healer and her knees gave way. A young mage shot out from the crowd and grabbed Wynne's arm, steadying her old mentor.

"Petra." Wynne said with a faint smile.

Shale pushed forward, extending her stone arms out to Alistair. "I will take It below," the golem announced, and was promptly ignored. Alistair only clutched tighter at Solona.

All fell silent when a faint gasp broke from Solona's lips as she took her first breath in what felt like an eternity.

"Solona!" Alistair shouted. "I'm sorry. I love you. I need you." he continued to beg, shrugging off any who attempted to remove the Warden from his grasp.

"Alistair, we need to get her inside," Leliana pleaded upon deaf ears.

Only Wynne's voice managed to make its way to the knight. He glanced up as the mage turned to her apprentice.

"Petra," he heard Wynne whisper, "I need you to..." but could make out no more. The young mage looked shocked, but nodded in agreement as she began to call upon the Fade.

And then Alistair's world went black.

* * *

Solona had been marching towards the Black City for some time now. How long exactly, she had no way for knowing. Perhaps it had been a day, perhaps a fortnight, perhaps a year, perhaps a lifetime.

Beyond the constant, nagging fatigue that laced itself throughout the Fade, Solona never actually grew tired nor hungry. At one point, she had tried to sleep - more out of ritual than requirement. She had lain down upon the dusty Fade earth with the babe at her side and shut her eyes. Eventually, when nothing at all transpired, she rose and continued on her way.

Solona looked down at the child in her sling. It too seemed unable to sleep. It never cried, nor fussed. It just lay in the sling, inquisitive eyes fixed upon her. Now and again, it would wave a chubby fist and coo, but nothing more.

It could have been much worse, Solona concluded. Death, that is, could have been much worse.

Yet then again, Life could have been _so_ much better. How could she have died so young, and yet amassed so very many regrets? She should have learned more Blood Magic. She should have taken Morrigan's dark offer. She should have broken out the Tower with Jowan years ago. She should have kissed Cullen. She should have slapped Anora. She should have never let Alistair take the crown. She should have - Solona stumbled for a moment with a frown. This wasn't helping anyone.

They said that some factions of the Dalish had come to believe in reincarnation. Perhaps she would get another chance to live without remorse - but that was nothing but a foolish hope. Solona shook herself from the memories, and continued on towards the Black City with a quickened pace.

Far behind her, a scent of demons began to gather.

* * *

The first rays of sunlight found Alistair Theirin passed out in a barren hallway. The future king had alternated between fitful sleep and anxious staring in front of a locked door since their arrival at the palace.

It had been four days since the defeat of the Archdemon. As soon as the palace had been secured, an armed escort of nearly fifty soldiers and mages had moved the fragile form of Solona Amell across Denerim to a lavish stateroom. Wynne had protested at first - the Warden was still much too weak to be moved - but eventually all agreed that it would be cruel to expect Solona to heal in a prison tower.

Upon their arrival, it had taken less than hour of Alistair getting in the way - sitting next to Solona, trying to hold her hand, asking her to forgive him, begging her to wake up - before Wynne ordered Petra to engage in high treason once more, and hex the future king into sleep for a second time. The story of how a half-dozen tiny mages proceeded to drag the sleeping sovereign into the hall and dump him unceremoniously there would circle the dormitories of the palace guard for years to come.

Alistair was forced to sit and stare at the locked door from the hall as a constant string of mages filtered in and out in shifts. Apparently only mages could open the enchanted door, leaving Alistair to alternate between shifts of frantic pacing and frenzied hammering upon the barrier, demanding that Wynne let him in. Of course, the mage did not. Oh, he could have gotten into that room. He could have called in the templars and had them tear the palace apart. He could have charged into the room and pulled her into his arms , and ... she would have hated him all the more for it. _If_ she ever woke up.

At some point, Arl Eamon had arrived and taken a silent seat next to him. Alistair failed to acknowledge his uncle, manically tapping away at his chair arm instead. Eventually, the Arl could wait no more. "Alistair, my boy," Eamon began. "People are starting to return to Denerim."

The king did not so much as grace his uncle with a glance. "Wonderful..." Alistair muttered, staring onwards at the locked door. His tapping fingers kept a steady pace.

The Arl tried another route, "We've received word that the Orlesian Grey Wardens should be here within a week."

"Great."

"The nobles are requesting that your coronation take place as soon as possible; they want to return to their homes to rebuild."

"Stupendous."

"The palace is overrun with darkspawn and we're all going to die."

"Thank Blessed Andraste."

"Alistair!" Eamon finally shouted, giving the Warden a slight shove.

Alistair blinked for a moment before turning his grim gaze towards the Arl. "What?" he asked coldly.

"You have to snap out of this, my boy." Eamon urged. "There is an entire country to rebuild; your people need you."

"No. They need someone to sit on the throne and look pretty. You can run Ferelden without me, Eamon," Alistiar mumbled. "Solona _needed_ me, and I spat in her face."

The Arl flopped down in his own chair. He was too tired and too old to deal with this. He wanted nothing more than a good night sleep and a few hours with his wife and child. It would be so very easy to just leave for Red Cliff. In the end, Eamon's diplomatic side won out; he attempted to reason with Alistair. "Solona's actions were her own choosing. She did what she did so you could be on the throne - so _you_ could look after Ferelden."

The tapping halted. Eamon sat up; perhaps he had actually reached the boy.

"What would I even say to her if ... if she wakes up?" Alistair asked.

Eamon stooped once more; his attempts remained futile.

" ' Hello my love, sorry I called you an Abomination'?" Alistair began to tap at the chair's arm once more. "Or how about: 'My, my, don't you look lovely today Solona? Thanks for dying for me. Incidentally, could you just do me a favour and just disappear somewhere?'"

"Would you rather tell her that she risked death for nothing? That you will hand the throne to Anora and all her pains - in body and soul - were for naught?" the Arl demanded, his voice a combination of desperation and irritation.

"Oh? Yes, I think my dear lady would love to hear that Alistair pissed on her heart for a cause without conviction," came a voice from across the hall.

Alistair and Eamon spun about to see Zevran and Leliana leaning against the far wall.

"Zevran...that was ... _unkind_," Leliana chastised half-heartedly.

The elf only shrugged in response.

The two rogues had been present the most of any of the companions. Of course Wynne was only a few yards away, hidden behind the dark door, but Alistair had not actually seen her for days. Apparently Oghren had grown restless within a few hours of waiting and declared that he was going hunting for straggling darkspawn. Unwilling to do nothing but wait for Solona's recovery or demise, Shale and Sten had silently joined him.

"How long have you been there?" Eamon demanded of the pair. The Arl had seen them fight loyally at Solona's side time and again, but he could still not bring himself to trust them. An Antivan and an Orlesian could hardly have Ferelden's best interests in mind. If he could, he would have them respectfully removed from the palace. Yet, Alistair insisted that the so-called Chantry sister have free reign of the palace - and it seemed that no lock nor guard could keep the elf from wandering at will.

Zevran shrugged once more. "Oh you know. We go here. We go there."

Eamon could only shake his head as he rose to his feet. With the foreigners hanging about, there was no point in trying to discuss anything official with the boy. "Alistair," he said, "I'm going to start making plans for a coronation. Solona knew this is for the best." He gave Alistair one last long glare, "Think about what _she_ really wanted."

Silence filled the room after Eamon disappeared through the passageway. It was sometime later when Leliana began to hum a soft tune and strum sweetly upon her lute, pushing back the oppressive quiet. The notes seemed to drift below Alistair's skin and release some of the turmoil seething there.

It was some long hours later when the door to Solona's chamber suddenly slammed opened. Wynne had barely slept more than a few hours since their arrival at Denerim, yet neither her fatigue nor her age prevented her from rattling the door upon its hinges. She stamped to where Alistair sat, ashen grey, even in surprise. Without warning, Wynne lifted a hand and slapped him hard across the cheek. Tears streamed down from the corners of her eyes.

"Wynne," Alistair choked. "Is she – "

The mage silenced him with the accusing thrust of a finger. "Tell me you didn't know," she rasped, face red in fury. "King or not, I will take you over my knee…" Wynne shook herself from the thought, and jabbed her finger sharply into Alistair's chest. "Swear to me you didn't know."

Alistair stammered for a moment. "I didn't know!" he exclaimed, and then crossed his brows. "What, exactly, didn't I know?"

Wynne trembled as she ran a hand through her snowy hair; her fingers caught in the snarled ends that sprang free from her bun. With a cold breath, she lowered her hands to her side. Of course the boy didn't know. There was no way that he, or Solona or anyone else for that matter, could have known. She drew another long breath, forcing herself to be calm.

"Solona is with child."

* * *

_A/N: Thanks to those that take the time to review. Also, my apologiies, I don't have a Beta Reader anymore. Shocking, no?_

_Anyways, it always bothered me that if you were a Human Noble, you could get around the whole Tainted childbirth thing with a sex joke... but if you were a Human Mage, it was utterly insurmountable. On that note, this is warning that the story henceforth won't be about the Wardens' happy family time - there's still darkspawn running amuck! And besides, Solona can't just forgive Alistair that easily._

_This is probably all out of date now that Awakenings has been released...Oh wells._


	7. Chapter 6: The Hard Place

**Chapter 6: The Hard Place**

Alistair released the breath he had not realized he was holding. With it, his very last embers of anxiety and strain extinguished themselves, leaving only a fulfilled sense of calm within him.

Life had not been easy for the former Grey Warden. Growing up unwanted - a burden - had left him hollow for too many dark years. Too often he had thought the tides of his fortunes changing, only to be left bitterly disappointed. The very worst of it had almost cost Alistair his wife and child.

Alistair smiled, things were _right_ now. He watched his children frolic about with Daro, the great mutt, laughing and chattering with their sweet innocence. His eldest, Duncan, would be six soon and what a strapping young lad he was turning into. Alistair had presented the boy with a wooden practice sword a few months ago and had struggled to maintain a stern repose when his son's eyes lit up with excitement.

Trailing slightly behind, as she wove a flower crown for the mabari, was Wynne, his little angel. She was barely four and had already managed to secure Alistair firmly about her little finger; her slightest smile was all it took to set him aglow. She was strong-willed and clever - the very splitting image of her mother...

Her mother...

From her position, tucked under his arm at his side, Solona turned to smile up at him. She was radiant. No. Radiant was an insult. She was something much more - far surpassing Breathtaking and leaving Divine trampled in the dust. And somehow, against all the faithless odds of the universe, she was his wife. The mother of his children. The keeper of his heart. The other half of his soul.

They shared a quiet life away in the rolling country hills, far away from demands of Denerim. They were no longer Wardens, mages, kings or otherwise. Here, in the bright afternoon sun, they were simply Man and Wife. Mother and Father. It was everything Alistair had ever wanted. It was everything Alistair had always ... _deserved._ Deserved.

Deserved.

A chill stabbed through Alistair's heart as the sky darkened. His gaze shot back to the field; his children had vanished. He scanned the horizon too panicked to move, as the lush green hills began to crumble to ash. The corners of Alistair's vision fluttered and faded as his world began to disappear.

Swallowing down the fear in his throat, Alistair turned back to his wife. The sight that awaited him choked him once more: Solona's glow was gone, leaving only a dull husk of a woman. She was ashen, sickly, and probably dying before his eyes.

"What do I deserve?" she asked him finally, cold and aching. "What do I deserve?"

With a start and a yelp, Alistair awoke as he landed unceremoniously on the floor. After a moment as a muddled heap of limbs, understanding began to flow back to the templar. Dreams. He wanted to spit at the notion. Apparently the Fade felt it necessary to be extra cruel as of late.

Of course, there was no happy family in a hilly paradise awaiting Alistair. Solona remained in the unending sleep that had befallen her a few weeks before. The mages told Alistair she was "stable", but as the Warden soon came to understand, "stable" had two meanings. Yes, she was not getting any worse: the mages no longer had to force her every breath and her external wounds seemed to be healing. However, Solona was not getting any better either. Her coma could not be broken by any combination of magic, medicine or alchemy they had tried.

To top off all matters, there was the child to consider now too. The thought almost brought the slightest of smiles to Alistair's lips as he knelt back down next to Solona's bed. He was going to be a father. It was wonderful and terrifying and absurd all at once. If had he known of his child a month ago, Alistair would have married his beloved on the spot and then shipped her off somewhere far away where she and the baby could be safe. Instead, he had effectively told his sweet lady to bugger off and then let her die. Oh, and to top it off he called her unworthy of being his whore.

Yes, his family skills were phenomenal already.

With Solona's condition now stable - for all the good and bad that it entailed - the constant stream of mages in and out of the chamber had dropped off. In fact, only a handful of Wynne's favourite students still remained in Denerim. Where once he was forced to pace the cold halls outside, Alistair was now welcome to spend long private hours at his beloved's side. Private-ish anyways; Daro lay upon a carpet near the fire, shooting dagger glares at Alistair.

With the gentlest of touches, Alistair took Solona's pale hand in his own and placed a soft kiss upon it. "It's a mess, Solona. I've fouled it all up," he sighed to his lover's sleeping form. He lifted her hand to place it upon his cheek, as she had a thousand times before. "But I'm going to make it right, my love. I swear. I'm going to make this right." Together with their child, they would have a Happy Ending.

A slight cough caused him to spin around. Leliana and Wynne stood with awkward smiles at the doorway. How had he not heard them come in?

"Alistair, what have I said about letting her rest?" Wynne admonished.

The future king of Ferelden could only frown and shake his head at the motherly scolding. Wynne could complain all she liked, but there was no way in the Maker's Thedas that Alistair was going to stop holding Solona's hand. Of course, there had been the rather embarrassing incident a few days ago when Wynne had caught him trying to hold Solona in his arms, but this had to be a reasonable compromise.

"At least you've both learned to stay off the bed," the mage sighed, giving Daro a pointed glance.

The mabari rose and gave Wynne an indignant snort. With a shake that started at the tip of his nose and travelled down to the end of his tail, Daro stretched and wandered over to Solona. He was a practical companion. The mabari knew that - intense loyalty or not - there was no point in wasting away at his Master's side. Instead, as always, he had a job to do. With a quick lick at Solona's hand to tell her that he would return shortly, Daro trotted out of the chamber to perform his rounds, find some food and mark a tree or two.

Leliana fidgeted under the uncomfortable silence that followed the dog's departure. "I was going to sing to Solona for a while ..." she said, holding out her lute.

It was subtle, but Alistair could hear the uncertainty in her words; she was asking his permission. "Yes, of course," he replied, backing away to one of the many scattered chairs.

The bard glided to the far side of the bed and positioned herself in the overstuffed chaise waiting there. With a graceful flick, she strummed the strings once to test the tuning and then began her song.

_Little Sparrow, little Sparrow,  
Won't you please come home?  
Your children are crying,  
Your nest has gone cold.  
Oh Little Sparrow, Little Sparrow,  
Won't you please come home?_

Alistair watched as Wynne bent over his sleeping lover and carefully poured the contents of a blue vial down her throat. Lyrium. Even in sleep, Solona's body demanded a constant supply. In the first few days following the defeat of the Archdemon, Solona had frequent fits. She would twist and twitch and moan in her sleep; her violent movements threatening to do herself an injury. It shamed them all how long it took to realize the cause; no one had believed her to be _that_ dependent upon the blue poison.

So now Solona was dosed with lyrium twice a day. It made Alistair sick to watch it. They had driven her to it - the frequent battles, their petty requests, and the constant dependency upon her magic. If he had been even half a worthy lover, he would have stopped this from ever happening. He should have paid better attention to the signs. Maker knew that as a templar he had seen his fair share of lyrium withdraw. Yet he had been a selfish fool, too preoccupied by the heady joy of love and sex to notice his lover drowning herself.

Alistair sighed. This too would be fixed. If Solona ever awoke, he would get her off the lyrium by whatever means necessary.

_Little Sparrow, little Sparrow,  
Won't you please come home?  
Your song grows silent,  
Your tears fall alone.  
Oh Little Sparrow, Little Sparrow,  
Won't you please come home?_

A hand upon his should startled Alistair back to the present.

"Alistair," Wynne began. "We should have a word outside."

He gave a weary nod and led the mage into an adjoining room. A quick survey revealed it to be empty, leaving Alistair alone with Wynne and ready for whatever scolding she had prepared for him.

"The lyrium is a problem," she stated plainly.

Alistair nodded. They had been over this before.

The old mage shook her head. "Perhaps you should sit down, my boy," she said.

With a deep sigh, Alistair fell into a chair. "Oh. What a relief. I thought you were actually going to give me some good news or something."

"I'm afraid we're still far away from that," Wynne lamented as she drew her own seat forward. She cleared her throat and began again. "The lyrium is a problem. My students have been doing some research - you must understand there is very little studied on this matter." She paused to take in a deep breath. "For Solona alone, it would be ... an inconvenience to her recovery." Wynne looked up to meet Alistair's gaze. It was not fair to keep piling the bad news upon the poor boy.

"But ... ?"

"But, for an unborn child exposed to lyrium for too long," she faltered. "The outlook is not promising."

Alistair let his head fall. Just like that, any hope of a distant Happy Ending vanished.

"It's not certain though - it's much too hard to predict," Wynne continued.

With a hollow voice, Alistair choked the words: "How bad?"

Wynne furled her brows. This was all so wrong. She wanted to spare the boy the pain of it all. She wanted to pull him into a mother's embrace and promise him that everything would be fine in the morning. Yet Alistair deserved the truth, even at the cost of the pain it would bring him.

"I - I cannot say for certain," she began. "If we keep supplying the lyrium for another month or so... it will not survive."

Alistair nodded without looking up. He had somehow been expecting that answer. "In the best case?" he managed.

"It's too hard to say, Alistair. There are simply too many factors to consider, and -"

Alistair cut her off, "Please, Wynne."

The old mage swallowed. Yes, he deserved the truth. "Sandal," she replied simply.

Alistair nodded again. _I'm sorry Solona._

"But..." Wynne began again, uncertain if the boy was even still listening. "Alistair, we have options."

He snapped. "Bloody Andraste, Wynne, just say it. Just say it all," Alistair shouted.

Wynne made to stand for a moment. She wanted to smack the boy across the ears for his outbursts. Didn't he realize this was hard for everyone? Didn't he realize this pained her too? Didn't he realize ... she stopped herself. She was much too old to snap at someone in agony. With a deep sigh, she explained it all at once. "We have three options. We can continue on as we are now, and sacrifice the health of the child. We can stop giving Solona lyrium, with considerable risk both their safeties."

Alistair nodded, recalling Solona's first distressing days after the Archdemon.

"Or we can sever Solona's tie with the Fade to ensure the safety of the child."

Alistair lifted for a moment. "What happens if we go with the third option?"

In an instant, Wynne regretted ever saying it. But no, she had decided upon the truth. "All the problems with lyrium stem from the Fade. The only way to truly cure lyrium addiction is move the patient into space barred from the Fade. We had such a place in the Circle Tower, and I believe there is one here in the palace dungeons. If you place the addict in such a chamber and deny them lyrium, they will not grapple with the Veil; they will recover with their senses intact."

Alistair's nervous laugh broke Wynne's words. "Maker's Breathe, Wynne, why didn't you just say that from the start?"

Wynne held up her hand to silence him. There was much more to be said. "Right now, Solona is walking in the Fade. If we move her to such place, it will destroy her path out of it."

Alistair shook his head. He did not understand.

"She will never wake-up."

Alistair stood with such force it knocked the chair behind him over. With a sharp breath, he turned away from Wynne with fists clenched at his sides. Solona's distain for the Maker was finally beginning to make sense. How heartless would his god have to be to show him a future of love and family, and then wrench it all away? He wanted to punch something. Wreck something. Break everything in the blasted room.

"What are you going to do?" he asked at last without turning.

The mage gave a hollow laugh. "I will do whatever you ask me to do," she said. "It has to be you that decides." Her wrinkled brows grew soft for a moment. "Solona would want it to be you."

The question should have troubled Alistair. It should have agonized him for weeks to come and then, having finally made a decision, drowned him with regret. It should have at least taken him a moment to decide.

But it did not.

"Make Solona well. No matter what."

* * *

Solona let herself drop awkwardly onto her bottom with a sigh. She was exhausted. The Fade was exhausting.

She had long since given up trying to true guess the passage of time. When the question would inevitably creep into her mind, she would silence it again with a single thought: Forever.

As she journeyed onwards towards the Black City, Solona talked to the child. At first to keep from going mad, then later since she was definitely already mad. She told the babe of her life within the Tower, and how she was quite certain that sooner or later, at some point before the end of Time, she would come to miss it.

Solona then carried on with stories of her quests as a Grey Warden. The tales spun her through the highs and lows of emotions again and again. Sometimes she would even manage a laugh when relaying a story of Zevran's or Oghren's antics. Often she would vent and shout at the ridiculousness of it all: the petty squabbles, the fool's errands, the secrets that somehow everyone in the bloody Thedas save her seemed to already know.

Yet, mostly, Solona avoided Alistair. She censored her every thought before allowing its broadcast. For all that his memory burned in the centre of her heart, Solona was certain that the only way to tolerate Eternity was to forget Alistair. Forget him and perhaps one day she could cast off his memory as easily as he had cast off their love.

Solona sighed as she gathered a handful of the Fade's sickly brown weeds within her hand. "It's all garbage anyways," she told the child. "I'm never going to reach the Black City. I'm never going to forget him and ..." She held the child up to her eyes. As always, it cooed and blinked at her with eyes like dawn's first light. "And you," she admitted, "Are never going to care."

_We care._

In an instant Solona was on her feet with the child clutched to her chest. She spun around with a flourish of tattered robes to face a pair of Desire Demons looming behind her.

Together they wafted in the ether like violet mirages. Warm smiles hid serrated teeth. _We care so much for you,_ the demons called to her, reaching out with barbed talons.

Solona screamed at herself for being such a fool. How had she not noticed them coming? Had she become so petty in her pity that demons could just waltz up and sink their claws into her spine?

_We want you to be happy,_ they sang. _Let us give you Joy._

Solona shook herself back to her senses. This was good. This was different. This was going to be fun. She secured the child back into its sling. With a smile, she held both her palms towards the grey sky before her. "Let me give you fire," she shouted back to the demons as flames poured forth from her hands.

_We wish you no harm. Give us the child and we will give you Happiness._

"What?" The flames in Solona's hands faltered. Why in Bloody Andaste's name would they want the child?

_Give us the babe. It is a burden to carry. Carry Pleasure instead._

"No."

The demons grew black, and then tall. _We will take it from you, _they warned.

Solona gave a cold laugh. With barely a flick of the wrist, she began to channel the fury of the Elements and the very essence of the Fade into her core. "You must be joking," she called back, as lightning began to cackle about her.

_Give it to us and we will spare you._

"Are you blind?" Solona laughed. "I'll destroy you!"

_Not them. _In unison, the demons lifted a spiny claw and pointed far off to Solona's right.

Never trust a demon. It was a simple enough rule, and yet the most paramount lesson taught to any Circle mage. Demons lie. One must be a fool to trust a demon. It was that simple.

And yet it was not that simple - for only a fool would not look.

Solona's eyes darted to her right. Her stomach dropped; in the distance a great mass of black and red poured over the horizon. Demons. Thousands of them, of every variety. And they were coming straight for her.

There was no more time to waste. Dust clouded the air as Solona sent flames and lightening swirling towards the Desire Demons. There as brief chorus of shrieks as they crumbled to ash, banished back to wherever demons spawned.

And then, Solona ran.

* * *

_A/N: What I had originally planned for this chapter had to be split up into 3 (maybe 4) chapters. Translation: I'm bad at estimating lengths._

_I also just realized that although I have had this plot worked out in my head for many months now, that you, the reader, do not yet know what this story is going to be about. So here a better hint. It's mainly going to be about ending the Taint once and for all, with some Old Gods, revelations and condemnations mixed-in – definitely not Amell/Alistair happy family-funtime… which of course doesn't tell you anything really, but makes me feel better. Hurray._


	8. Chapter 7: The Fall

**Chapter 7: The Fall**

More time passed.

To be exact: two weeks, six days, three hours and twelve minutes had passed since Solona struck down the Archdemon. Alistair knew this, because he had counted every second.

He had become used to the certain degree of tedium that had settled into Solona's chambers. Wynne and a handful of her apprentices would bustle in and out a few times each day. In the afternoon, Leliana would appear to sing and fix Solona's hair. To be honest, Alistair saw no real point in either task, but it broke up the hopelessness that seemed to cloud the air.

The most constant presences were, of course, Alistair and Daro. Both had come to terms with the other's company, but neither were very happy about it. Indeed, both were quite certain that Solona would be happier if the other left. Daro did occasionally leave to perform his rounds, and Alistair was frequently locked-out by Wynne, but neither waivered in his belief that he was the most important man in Solona's life.

There was another whose presence Alistair was always aware of, but never witnessed. Zevran had made himself scarce since Wynne had begun to allow Solona visitors. Although Alistair had not seen the assassin in days, whenever he left Solona's side, a red rose would appear at her bedside. A red _Antivan_ rose.

In short, the elf drove Alistair mad. During the Blight the little imp had gone so far as to proposition Solona not 30 feet from where Alistair stood. His lovely mage had laughed off the joke that was most certainly _not_ a joke and that should have been the end of that. But Zevran was persistent, and charming, and exotic and ... had never betrayed her.

Thus the assassin gave Alistair yet another reason to protest leaving Solona's side, especially when Eamon demanded 'a walk' with him. Like right now. Alistair frowned as he followed the Arl through the castle. It sucked.

A small crowd of lunching guards had gathered about in the dusty courtyard. Together they cheered and jeered a pair of sparring soldiers. Alistair let Eamon draw him towards the mass. In his few excursions away from Solona, he had seen all the palace guards hard at work. They toiled day and night to help rebuild the city, fend off thieves and keep watch for straggling Darkspawn. In the wake of the Blight, their job had been a grim one, and had he not been so distracted, Alistair would have been pleased to see them receive a moment of respite.

Alistair and Eamon arrived at the cluster just as the larger combatant tumbled backwards onto the ground and lost his sword. The smaller fighter, a slight woman in leathers and helm, leapt forward with double daggers flashing. She landed gracefully to straddled the fallen man, the tips of her silver blades a mere hair from his throat.

"I yield!" the large soldier exclaimed.

The crowd erupted in cheers, and friendly hands reached out to help both victor and vanquished to their feet. A few final congratulations were offered and then, without much ceremony at all, the guards went back to work, leaving the champion alone with Alistair and Eamon.

"Eamon!" the girl cried and jaunted towards the men. Her oiled armour was a rich mahogany tone, intricately patterned and masterfully made. With a causal grace, she pulled off her helmet to reveal a thick mane of cascading red. Her eyes sparkled a brilliant green as she smiled at Eamon.

"Ah," the Arl beamed. "Lady Elissa Cousland, allow me to introduce you to Alistair Theirin, our soon-to-be King." Eamon all but shoved the pair together.

The girl's eyes widened for a moment before she hastily crossed her arms before her to bow. "Your Majesty, it is a great honour to meet you."

"Ahh, I'm not a monarch yet, easy on the 'Majesty' stuff," Alistair stammered. "So, it's just 'Alistair' for now, please."

Elissa flashed him a dazzling smile. "Of course, Alistair."

An awkward silence fell as the girl continued to beam. "That was some, um, nice fighting there," Alistair tried.

"Oh, that was nothing - just a little sparring." Her mood suddenly fell. "My father used to teach me. He was a true master before ... "

Alistair shuffled his feet in the dirt as he rubbed at the back of his neck. "Ah, right, Howe ...I'm sorry ... for bringing it up ... and such," he stumbled, suddenly feeling very guilty about the whole thing.

The girl shook her head, sending her long, fiery tresses into delicate ripples. With a delicate sniff, she blinked back the tears that threatened to fall. "No, Alistair, it is truly fine." Elissa straightened to the posture of a noble. "I am grateful to you and the Warden for avenging for my family. My parents' souls may rest peacefully in the Maker's embrace now." She paused for a moment. "In fact, I would like to extend my gratitude to the Warden herself."

"Hm, well... that is," Alistair stumbled. Although a great many had requested to see Solona, only her companions and Wynne's students had been granted access. They still had not worked out a story to explain Solona's unending sleep without revealing that she should, in fact, be dead by the Taint's hand. And, of course, there was that _other _matter to consider; even Eamon had not been told of the Warden's pregnancy.

The Orlesian Wardens' arrival had only made matters worse. They had marched into the tattered city a few days ago, and had immediately demanded to know why his lover was still alive. It was a strange affair: they seemed almost angry that Solona was still breathing. For once, Alistair was glad he was ignorant; lying to his brothers was not something he would relish. When their inquires proved fruitless, the Orlesians had then demanded that their healer examine Solona, despite Wynne's outright refusal. Some rather tense moments had passed when Leliana drew her bow outside Solona's door, and in Alistair's best attempt to understand Orlesian, had told the foreign Wardens where to go, and how to get there.

And so, the Orlesian Wardens were forced to settle with the same story that had been passed to the public. Yes, Solona was alive. Yes, she was the greatest hero in all the land. No, she was not taking visitors at this time.

Alistair gave Lady Cousland a sheepish shrug. "Solona's still pretty banged up from the battle. She's still not up to seeing guests yet ..."

Elissa gave a sweet gasp, "Oh, I'm so sorry. There are so many rumours about the Warden, I've no idea what to believe. Please send my best wishes for her recovery."

"Yes. Of course, thank you," Alistair stammered; the girl's heavy gaze was beginning to unnerve him.

Eamon took the lull as opportunity to steer the conversation away from Solona. "You know, Lady Cousland almost became a Warden herself."

The girl blushed and gave a slight laugh. "It seems so very long ago. The Warden Duncan came to my family's estate last spring. He wanted to recruit me, but my father refused, and that was the end of that." Elissa turned wistful for a moment. "And then, when Howe ..." she trailed off. "I tried to follow Duncan to Ostagar, but I was too late."

Alistair and Eamon gave a solemn nod of understanding.

With a sigh and an absent twirl of her silver blades, Elissa continued. "I spent months looking for any sign of my brother Fergus, but with no home and no allies, I ended up hiding away in a small village in Highever."

Eamon scoffed. "You hardly hid, my dear," he smiled. Turning to Alistair, he said, "Lady Cousland freed the village from bandits' hold and then single handily kept the North Roads safe for refugees."

Again, all Alistair could do was nod. "That was, umm, very brave of you," he stumbled.

The girl gave a songbird's laugh. "It was nothing compared to your adventures with the Warden, I'm sure," she smiled. "I just tossed about some bandits. And then, when I heard that the Blight was over and Howe destroyed, I came to Denerim to reclaim my family's title."

"But now, Lady Cousland intends to stay in Denerim indefinitely, isn't that right, my dear?" Eamon asked.

"Yes, it is. With Fergus alive, well and returning to Highever, I've no real plans now," Elissa gave a slight shrug.

Alistair shuffled his feet once more, letting the others' words wash past him. After so many days of darkspawn and archdemons and comas and lovechildren, idle chit chat seemed so strange now. Why was Eamon drawing this out? Their talks together usually consisted solely of lectures of duty and politics. There were hundreds of soldiers about, why bother with this one girl?

"... don't you think so, your Majesty - I mean, Alistair?" Lady Cousland asked.

"Oh? What? Sorry, I didn't catch that..." Alistair apologized, snapping back to the conversation.

Eamon gave Alistair a sharp glare. "Lady Cousland was just pointing out what a beautiful day it is."

Alistair looked up into the sky to hide his bemusement. Really? The weather? He sighed, yes indeed, only a few fluffy white clouds dotted the horizon, leaving the sun to shine bright and strong, high above them. With a deepening frown, Alistair realized it was now past noon; he should have been back to Solona nearly an hour ago.

"Um, yes," he nodded. "Very nice. Very sun...ish. Not much cloud...ish...ness, either," Alistair fumbled.

The girl grinned. "Yes, it's very sunnish, indeed."

With a silent sigh, Alistair gave Elissa a slight bow, and tried very hard to be polite. "Lady Cousland, it was a pleasure to meet you, but I have to go... do kingly stuff."

"Yes, of course. Please excuse me for keeping you," Elissa bowed once more. "I do hope we will meet again."

With that, Alistair about-faced back towards Solona's chambers, with Eamon chasing at his heels. As Alistair rounded a bend into the Royal chambers, Eamon reached out to grasp his shoulder.

"Slow down there, my boy."

"I really need to get back to Solona."

Eamon gave his shoulder a slight squeeze. "Just take a moment with me first, Alistair. I think the lady can wait a minute or two longer."

Alistair nodded, embarrassed. "Yes. You're right, of course."

There was a quiet moment while the Arl gathered his words. "So," he began at last. "What did you think of Lady Cousland?"

Alistair crossed his brows. That was not the sort of question he had been expecting. "I ... she's a fine young lady," Alistair admitted.

"Yes, she is," Eamon nodded. "And the daughter of Teryn Bryce Cousland - a very respected and well loved, Teryn." He paused for a moment, gauging his nephew's reaction. "And she's very talented in her own rights - an accomplished duelist; an avid historian; fluent in Orlesian, Anders and Antivan; a local hero ... I think she's plays the harp too..."

Alistair laughed. "Settle down, Eamon. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to sell me something."

Eamon's gaze fell, as a glimmer of guilt flickered across his eyes.

With a choke, Alistair's jaw fell open. "Maker's breath, Eamon, you _are_ trying to sell me something."

The Arl sighed. "You must consider the stability of the throne, Alistair. You will need an heir very shortly."

Alistair sputtered as he rubbed his forehead in disbelief. "Maker's Breath, Eamon. She's a _child._"

"Elissa is older than she looks," Eamon countered. "She will be eighteen before summer's end."

Alistair sighed. "That's still much too young, Eamon."

The two men held each other in long stares. They had ended up in a small courtyard within the Royal chambers. Green grasses curled up to their ankles, somehow untouched by the recent invasions.

Alistair scanned the skies above, grateful for this privacy. "You know," he gave a cold laugh. "I was actually worried that you would try to start that whole Celene with me."

Again, Eamon's eyes held guilt. "I did not believe that now would be the best time to include additional outside influences." He paused for a moment, evaluating his nephew's response. "But, if you would be open to considering - "

"No." Alistair interrupted. "Absolutely not. We're done with this." He turned back towards the inner chambers.

"It can't be Solona," Eamon shouted after him. "You _know _this."

Alistair dug in his heels, grinding himself to a halt. That was it. He was tired of this. Tired of all this nonsense, when there was really only one answer to it all.

Alistair spun about and marched back to Eamon. When he reached him, Alistair bent down to look the older man in the eyes. Perhaps for a moment, he recognized the equal fatigue within him, but Alistair did not let that stop him.

"It _has_ to be Solona," he hissed. "She's pregnant. She holds the heir you want so badly." With that, he strode on to Solona's chambers, determined that nothing would stop him now.

Eamon blinked for only the barest moment before regaining his composure. "You're certain?" he called, chasing after him. "You're certain it's yours?"

Alistair forced his hands to his sides, for fear of strangling his uncle. "I'm going to pretend that you did not just ask that."

"But the elf was clearly interested -"

"No."

"And the Blood Mage at Redcliffe was an old friend -"

"NO."

"And there is rumour about another Templar at the Circle -"

"NO!" Alistair grabbed the Arl by the shoulders and shook him. "Stop this," he hissed. "Before I do something we both regret."

"I..." Eamon stammered. "Yes, I see." He nodded. "I will arrange for Solona to be transported to Redcliffe. Quietly. I will see to her and the child's comfort myself." He paused. "Away from Denerim."

Alistair trembled, not believing his own ears. "And then what?" he seethed. "Raise him like your own until Isolde gets jealous? And then ship him off to rot in the Chantry?" He gave his uncle one last shove before stalking away.

* * *

Solona ran, stumbled, fell, and then ran once more. A legion of demons bit at her heels, offering her paradise.

_Demons lie!_ _Demons always lie! _She screamed to herself, clenching the tiny bundle close to her chest. _Run. Fly._

If only she had wings.

* * *

Alistair threw open the doors of Solona's chamber with enough force to rattle one off its hinges. With a grimace, he shook off Wynne's scolding for the intrusion and marched to the one woman he believed could hold off his mounting tide of dilemmas.

"Leliana."

Her song interrupted, Leliana summoned her Chantry grace to stop from scowling. "Yes, Alistair? What can I do for you?"

"Leliana, I..." Alistair swallowed hard. "You know that the Revered Mother in Lothering was killed during the Blight, yes?"

Leliana nodded slowly. "Yes. Revered Mother Irina." She stood, settling her lute gently upon her chair. "She stayed to care for the refugees. It was a great tragedy - she was such a kind and gentle soul..."

Alistair bit back a reminder of how ... _kind_... the Revered Mother had been when Solona had demanded Sten's freedom. "Yes, well," he stammered, wondering if he was half mad. "I need you to lie for me - for Solona."

The bard glared at him. "What?" she demanded.

"," Alistair spewed in a single breath. He inhaled deeply and tried to ignore the looks of shock he received. "In Lothering. In secret. With you as the only witness." His chin dropped against his chest like a shamed child.

Leliana stepped cautiously towards Alistair, her jaw dropped low and her brows cinched in consternation. "You want me to lie about the last days of a Holy Mother? You want me to lie about sacred vows taken before the Maker himself?"

"I...well...yes," Alistair stammered. "For Solona," he added.

She turned to Wynne. "He's gone mad."

Wynne shook her head. "Alistair, I've warned you about running yourself ragged," she sighed. "You need to get some rest away from here. Watching her sleep all day won't do anyone any good."

"No Wynne, it's..." Alistair paused to kneel down next to Solona, and take her pale hand into his. She was so small, so fragile, and he was losing her. "Eamon wants to send her away," he said. "He wants hide her and our child away in Redcliffe and marry me off to some nobleman's daughter."

"You're king." Leliana spat. "Stop him."

"It's more than that," he answered, voice small. "I can't have a bastard."

"So now you worry about propriety?"

"What? No," Alistair swore. He ran his thumb against the palm of Solona's hand. It was cold and lifeless. Had it really been so long since she held his back?

"If anything happens to me, I want her and the child to be taken care of," he sighed. "I want them to have rights and respect. I want them to know that I loved them." He stood up, brushed the dust from this clothing and then turned back towards the women. "I won't let my son suffer a bastard's life of shame and desertion."

It was only a small stitch in the tapestry of Alistair's hopes and fears, but one little pull upon it would unravel them all.

"And I can't lose her again..."

Leliana marched to stand a hair's width away from Alistair. Fury and fire sprouted from her as she shouted to him. "Now? Now you want her? After everything you've been through and everything you've said and done and _hurt_ ... now you want her?"

"Yes." It was not simple and it was not pretty. "Yes."

A long silence filled the chamber. Leliana turned storm out from the room, but stopped just short of the old oak door. She raked her fingers across her brow and let loose a string of Orlesian curses that no Chantry sister should know.

"Fine," she said at last. Whirling about on the hard stone floor, she pointed a harsh finger at Alistair. "But if you do this, you do it in truth. Before the Maker's sight and in Andraste's eternal glory. You will not abandon _ma soeur_ again."

"A_ moritisk vindalle_..." Wynne whispered, forgotten by the pair.

Alistair shook his head. "I'm sorry. A what now?"

"You are most certainly the worst templar in the Chantry," Leliana scoffed.

"Ah...I was only an Apprentice... and Templar's don't really do weddings, just ... you know ...stabbity and whatnot." Alistair clarified. "But, ah, yes, go on."

Wynne came to stand before Alistair. With a mother's touch, she placed a hand upon his shoulder. "It is an ancient and tragic ritual," she lamented. "When a young lover falls into her deathbed, she and beloved may make a _moritisk vindalle -_ a Deathbed vow. It is, in essence, an appeal to Andraste's mercy; by showing their devotion to one another, they pray that Our Lady Redeemer will bless their union and cure the ill. If not, well, the girl and her beloved are bound together in the eyes of the Maker, so that when they both have passed on, they may be together forever at the Maker's side." Wynne paused at Alistair's confusion. "If the girl is too weak to respond, her guardian may make the vows for her. To the Chantry, the vow is as strong as any other marriage."

Alistair stepped back. "So you're saying that fathers can marry off their dying daughters to whomever they like? And that's it? They're stuck together for all eternity?"

"_Oui_," Leliana spat. "And if you want me to lie for you, you'll do it, and you'll - "

"Okay. I'll do it," Alistair interrupted. "Whatever you want. Whatever you need. For Solona. I'll do it."

* * *

This was it. This was the end of Solona Amell. She had died in the Thedas and now she would die once more in the Fade.

Solona had run from the demons for what might have been hour or eons. Over gray hill and gray dale, she run for all her worth, but her little piece of the Fade was no different from those she had visited in the past: it was an island with nothing but cold mist at all sides. At some point she had become rash and foolish and backed herself onto a cliff. With the army of demons upon her and trapped upon a narrow plank, she had nowhere else to run.

_Give us the child,_ a demon spoke without sound. _Give it to us. You can go free. Back beyond the Veil._

"There's no going back," Solona spat.

_We will show you the way._

Oh Maker, could they actually do it - send her back to the Thedas? Back to Alistair? Who knew how long she had actually been dead in the mortal world? If it had only been a little while, then her body might still be...

No. Demons lie. Demons _always _lie. Anyways, it did not matter. She would not - could not - give a babe over to the demons.

"No!" Solona shouted back to them. "Leave us alone or I'll destroy you all!"

_You cannot. Foolish mortal. You are One. We are the Fade. You cannot win. Give us the child._

With an echoing cry, Solona summoned forth another sheet of white lightening. It was enough to scatter the first row into ash, but not enough to stop the demons' advance. They slithered on towards her with a mad determination. She called down rains of fire and ice, but they too were insignificant against the dark throng of demons. And so Solona fought until she reached Exhaustion and then she continued far beyond it. She could not carry on much longer. She would lose and the demons would tear her apart and take the child anyways.

Behind Solona the edge of the cliff loomed. Cold wind gusted up her spine, inviting her down into the foggy depths. She swallowed down the rising bile in her throat. Perhaps it would be better for everyone if she just jumped ...

A raven's cry turned her gaze upwards. High above the demons, a bird speared through the mists of the Fade towards Solona. She risked another glance up - even from such a distance, the bird seems oddly ... _familiar. _The raven dove into the ground between Solona and the demons, and then vanished into a oily black cloud of smoke. Both mage and demons paused to stare as the smoke writhed into the shape of a certain witch.

Morrigan took but a moment to regain her senses before letting loose a piecing shriek at the oncoming horde. With a sharp cut of her hands, a thick wall of ice rose up to shield the pair. For now.

"Why have you not risen yet?" she demanded, grabbing Solona by the forearm and shaking her. "Why are you not searching for Flemeth?"

"Morrigan?" Solona gasped in disbelief. Realization quickly followed. "Maker, you died too..."

The witch's brows drew together in a moment of confusion. "Bloody hell!" she spat. "Fool! You've no idea ..." Morrigan rubbed at her temple for a moment.

A muffled screech and the cracking of ice startled them both.

"You must wake up, Solona!" she shouted.

Solona frowned. Poor Morrigan, she had no idea she was dead. "Morrigan, there's no waking up." She shook her head. "We died."

Another crack skittered across the ice wall. The dark figures behind it scratched and scrabbled at it until finally a demon punctured a small hole and grasped blindly through it.

The mages jumped back to the very tip of the cliff. With a cry of frustration, Morrigan slapped Solona hard across the creek and then seized her by the shoulders.

"I need you. Wake up." she hissed, and pushed Solona over the edge.

* * *

_90% of this chapter was written over a year ago. I have this awesome habit of not finishing things..._

_Fact: I am not a fan of the Cousland Origin, or at least how I feel that it's supposed to play out. All the other Origins can be ... __**grungy**__ if they have to. Or, more likely, I'm just jealous that only Cousland can legitimately have Alistair in the end..._


End file.
